THE 

EMIGRANT 


L.F.  DOSTOIEFFSKAYA 


LIBRARY 

University  ol 

California 

Irvine 


3X73 


£5 


THE   EMIGRANT 


THE    EMIGRANT 

.  X 

•4     -f  BY 

0"  A® 

IT  F*  DOSTOIEFFSKAYA 


TRANSLATED  BY 

VERA   MARGOLIES 

WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION   BY 

STEPHEN  GRAHAM 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

1916 


PREFACE 

"THE  EMIGRANT " (Emigranta), by  L.  F.  Dos- 
toieffskaya,  a  daughter  of  Dostoievsky  the 
novelist,  was  published  in  1913,  and  ob- 
tained considerable  success  in  Russia.  It  is 
a  study  of  the  life  of  a  Russian  girl  (or  should 
we  say  woman  ?  for  she  is  not  young)  in 
Italy.  It  is  a  deeply  interesting  study  of 
contemporary  types.  In  truth,  only  two 
Russians  take  part  in  the  story,  the  hero 
and  heroine,  Prince  Gzhatsky  and  Irene. 
But  the  long  struggle  which  is  portrayed  is  a 
Russian  struggle. 

These  Russians,  however,  are  not  the 
Russians  of  Dostoievsky's  time.  They  are 
clearly  of  to-day. 

Pride   in   Russia,  and  in  Russia's  might  and 

wealth  and  brilliant  future,  was  one  of  Irene's 

greatest  joys.    The  Russian  people  seemed  to  her 

to  be  a  race  of  chivalrous  knights,  ever  ready  to 

v 


vi  THE  EMIGRANT 

fight  for  truth  and  Christianity,  and  to  defend 
the  weak  and  the  persecuted.  When  the  Japanese 
War  broke  out,  she  asked  herself,  with  the 
sincerest  astonishment,  how  such  pitiful  monkeys 
ever  could  have  declared  war  on  such  indomitable 
knights.  She  even  pitied  the  Japanese  for  having 
fallen  victims  to  such  madness !  Her  despair 
and  suffering  at  the  news  of  our  first  failures  is 
therefore  easy  to  imagine.  None  of  Irene's 
near  relations  were  at  the  war,  but  each  of  our 
losses,  nevertheless,  found  its  echo  in  her  heart, 
like  a  personal  misfortune.  Overwhelmed  with 
grief,  she  attached  no  importance  either  to  the 
Russian  revolution,  or  to  the  reforms  that  followed. 
Like  all  passionate  idealists  when  their  ideal  is 
shattered,  Irene  rushed  to  the  other  extreme — 
that  of  a  profound  contempt  for  Russia. 

And  it  is  in  contempt  of  Russia  that  the 
heroine  finds  consolation  in  Italy,  and  is 
even  ready  to  throw  over  the  Orthodox 
Church  to  which  she  belongs  and  enter  a 
convent  of  sosurs  mauves. 

The  chief  interest  in  the  book  is  the  con- 
flict between  the  influence  of  a  certain  Pere 
Etienne  and  the  influence  of  a  compatriot,,  of 
handsome  looks  and  robust  mind,  Prince 
Gzhatsky.  Irene  is  in  a  pension  "teeming 
with  old  maids."  She  is  herself  forty  and  un- 


PREFACE  vii 

married.  She  is  apparently  without  near  of 
kin,  and  is  lonely  beyond  words,  but  also 
selfish  and  extremely  condemnatory  in  her 
outlook.  But  she  is  vivacious,  spontaneous, 
engaging,  and  always  asking  pertinent  ques- 
tions. 

The  high  demands  she  made  of  her  ideal 
hero,  the  man  she  might  marry,  give  one  the 
idea  that  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  auto- 
biography in  this  volume,  for  no  doubt  ideals 
ranged  high  in  the  home  of  Dostoievsky.  It 
is  strange,  however,  that  the  question  of 
selfishness  and  unselfishness  does  not  arise 
in  this  enthralling  study  of  an  unsatisfied 
soul.  Dostoievsky  himself  was  never  tired 
of  a  certain  Gospel  sentence,  the  thought  of 
which  might  have  given  calm  to  Irene : 
"  Except  a  corn  of  wheat  fall  into  the  ground 
and  die  it  abideth  alone ;  but  if  it  die  it 
bringeth  forth  much  fruit."  The  whole  book, 
however,  has  a  haunting  suggestion  of  Dos- 
toieffsky — the  ghost  of  the  father  is  some- 
where about. 

This  poor  Russian  woman  has,  however, 
lost  herself  in  going  to  Rome.     One  sees 


viii  THE  EMIGRANT 

how  much  happier  she  would  have  been  if 
she  had  remained  at  home.  It  is  common  in 
Russians  to  go  into  ecstasy  about  Italy  when 
they  see  it  first. 

"In  Italy,  amidst  the  brilliance  and  magni- 
ficence of  Nature,  in  the  magnificent  chaos 
of  cities  buzzing  with  automobiles,  humming 
with  factories,  you  feel  at  least  that  Man  is 
not  losing  himself;  you  feel  he  is  the  master, 
the  centre.  But  in  Moscow  .  .  ."  wrote 
Gorky,  another  unhappy  exile ;  and  it  is 
a  characteristic  expression.  The  exile  ad- 
mires the  West,  but  he  must  return  to- 
Russia. 

A  word  should  be  said  as  to  the  discussion 
of  the  relative  merits  or  demerits  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  and  Orthodox  Churches.  It 
is  not  very  competently  handled  by  the 
authoress,  but  there  is  at  least  one  most 
effective  comment  on  ecclesiasticism  as  such  : 

"In  your  place  I  would  go  a  little  further 
still,"  exclaimed  Irene's  inner  soul  with 
malicious  sarcasm.  "  I  would  destroy  every 
New  Testament  in  the  world,  except  one — 
and  that  one  I  would  put  in  a  golden,  jewel- 


PREFACE  ix 

studded  box,  and  would  bury  it  deep  in  the 
earth,  forbidding  its  disinterment  on  pain  of 
death.  Over  it,  I  would  build  a  splendid 
golden  shrine,  and  in  this  shrine  I  would 
celebrate  night  and  day  magnificent  services 
with  gorgeous  processions.  That  would  be 
entirely  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  your 
Christianity." 

And  she  yearns  for  a  Christianity  freed 
from  the  prison  walls  of  churches  and  forms. 

Irene,  however,  thinks  that  if  the  Orthodox 
Russian  Church  elected  a  Patriarch  it  might 
recover  its  ancient  power,  and  utter  a  "  new 
word."  And  there  once  more  we  see  vaguely 
the  ghost  of  Dostoievsky.  The  great  Rus- 
sian, however,  would  not  have  spoken  so 
kindly  of  the  Roman  Church  (which  he  re- 
garded as  a  sort  of  political  conspiracy  against 

Christianity). 

STEPHEN  GRAHAM. 

LONDON, 

1916. 


THE   EMIGRANT 


i 

II  n'y  a  qu'un  heroisme  au  monde  :  c'est  de  voir  le 
monde  tel  qu'il  est — et  de  1'aimer. — ROMAIN  HOLLAND. 

ON  the  1 5th  of  October,  19 — ,  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  in  the  garden  of  the  Monte 
Pincio  in  Rome,  sat  a  girl,  no  longer  in  the 
first  flush  of  youth,  Irene  Mstinskaia.  She 
held  a  book  in  her  hand,  having  come  to  the 
park  with  the  object  of  reading  in  the  fresh 
air ;  but,  as  had  always  been  the  case  since 
her  arrival  in  Rome,  she  could  not  concentrate 
her  thoughts  on  the  English  novel  open 
before  her.  Her  glance  glided  across  the 
blue  autumnal  sky,  lingered  caressingly  on 
the  magnificent  southern  pines  and  palms, 
rested  on  the  statues  gleaming  white  among 
the  verdure,  and  always  returned  to  the 


2  THE  EMIGRANT 

Eternal  City,  as  it  lay  spread  out  before 
her,  at  the  feet  of  the  Pincio. 

Irene  had  travelled  much  and  seen  much, 
but  no  town  had  yet  produced  so  deep  an 
impression  on  her.  She  tried  in  vain  to 
define  this  power  that  Rome  wielded  over 
her,  and,  finding  no  explanation,  she  invented 
one  of  her  own:  "Who  knows,"  thought 
Irene  dreamily,  "  perhaps  people  never  really 
quite  die,  but  remain  for  ever  hovering  in 
spirit  round  those  places  where  they  have 
most  forcibly  lived  and  suffered.  It  may  be 
that  Rome  is  full  of  the  ghosts  of  ancient 
Romans,  of  early  Christians,  of  Renaissance 
painters,  of  nineteenth-century  Italians,  who 
died  nobly  in  the  struggle  for  Italy's  freedom 
and  unity.  All  these  phantoms  are  unable 
to  tear  themselves  away  from  their  beloved 
Eternal  City.  They  are  the  rulers  of  Rome 
to-day,  as  much  as  in  their  own  time,  and 
we,  foreigners,  fall  under  their  influence  and 
cannot  dissociate  our  thoughts  from  them." 

On  the  whole,  the  influence  of  Rome  was 
not  only  overwhelming — it  was  also  soothing. 
Wandering  in  museums,  among  ruins,  through 


THE  EMIGRANT  3 

churches  and  catacombs,  Irene  felt,  day  by 
day,  stealing  into  her  soul  a  profound,  indes- 
cribable sense  of  peace,  such  as  that  which 
unconsciously  comes  over  one  as  one  enters 
a  convent.  And  it  was  just  for  this  holy 
stillness  and  peace  that  her  tired  soul  was 
thirsting. 

Let  not  the  reader  think,  however,  that 
my  heroine  had  passed  through  the  storm 
of  some  great  misfortune,  or  the  suffering  of 
some  severe  illness.  On  the  contrary,  her 
life  and  circumstances  were  such,  that  many 
a  short-sighted  and  superficial  observer  envied 
her  exceedingly. 

At  the  death  of  her  parents,  Irene  had 
remained  entirely  free,  with  plenty  of  money, 
a  good  name,  and  a  good  position  in  society. 
She  enjoyed  excellent  health,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  she  had  been  born  and  had  passed 
all  her  life  in  Petrograd  ;  she  was  clever  and 
well  educated.  What  more,  one  asks  one- 
self, could  anyone  desire  of  the  Fates  ? 

But,  somehow,  it  is  an  unfortunate  fact  in 
dear  Russia,  that  even  the  most  precious 
gifts  of  the  gods  seem  never  to  be  of  any 


4  THE  EMIGRANT 

benefit  to  our  people.  How  is  one  to  explain 
this  curious  circumstance  ?  Does  it  arise  from 
some  peculiarity  in  the  Russian  temperament, 
or  from  the  general  disorder  and  purposeless- 
ness  of  our  way  of  living  ?  The  French, 
in  the  similar  case  of  "  La  Belle  au  Bois 
Dormant,"  have  laid  all  the  blame  at  the 
door  of  the  wicked  fairy  who  was  offended 
at  not  being  invited  to  the  christening.  I 
think  I  shall  not  go  far  wrong  if  I  say  that 
in  Russia  the  part  of  the  wicked  fairy  is 
played  by  the  parents  of  the  infant  them- 
selves. Oh,  of  course  not  intentionally,  but 
simply  as  a  consequence  of  our  Russian  lazi- 
ness and  the  absence  of  organized  and  formu- 
lated ideas  in  the  bringing  up  of  our  children. 
Irene  Mstinskaia  lost  her  mother  early  and 
was  brought  up  by  her  father,  a  scientist  who 
spent  all  his  life  in  his  laboratory,  disliked 
society,  and  received  nobody  but  an  occa- 
sional friend,  as  jealously  devoted  to  science 
as  himself.  He  adored  his  little  Irene,  petted 
and  spoiled  her ;  but,  like  most  Russian 
parents,  took  very  little  interest  in  her 
spiritual  development.  The  child  grew  up, 


THE  EMIGRANT  5 

lonely,  silent,  pensive.  Books  took,  in  her 
young  life,  the  place  of  companions  and 
childish  games.  She  read  a  great  deal 
without  guidance  or  discrimination,  and 
gained  all  her  ideas  on  life,  all  her  faith, 
all  her  ideals  and  aims  and  aspirations  from 
books.  Books  stood  between  her  and  reality, 
and  hid  from  her  those  deep  truths  that  can 
never  be  learnt  from  even  the  greatest  literary 
production,  but  can  only  be  understood  after 
long  years  of  untiring  observation  and  ex- 
perience. It  was  in  books  also  that  Irene 
found  her  ideal  of  the  man  she  could  love. 
Her  hero  was  an  exceedingly  complicated 
character.  He  united  in  himself  the  stoicism 
of  an  ancient  Roman,  the  romanticism  of  a 
mediaeval  knight,  the  gallantry  of  a  powdered 
marquis,  and  the  dignified  chivalry  of  the 
hero  of  an  English  novel. 

Do  not  laugh,  reader !  Irene  was  not 
stupid ;  she  was  only  young  and  inexperienced, 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  life,  and  sincerely 
believed  in  her  fantastic  dream  hero.  Most 
pathetic  of  all  was  the  fact  that  she  set  about 
looking  for  him  among  the  relations  and 


6  THE  EMIGRANT 

friends  of  her  late  mother,  who  had  belonged 
by  birth  to  the  higher  government  circles — 
i.e.,  the  most  unromantic  circles  of  Russian 
society.  The  proximity  of  the  court,  the 
glitter  of  wealth  and  social  position,  trans- 
forms almost  every  young  Petrograd  official 
into  a  mere  hunter  after  honours,  money, 
decorations,  caring  for  nothing  but  his  career 
and  the  chance  of  some  brilliant  appointment. 
The  distance  that  separates  Petrograd  from 
the  rest  of  Russia  destroys  in  these  young 
people  what  should  be  the  fundamental  idea 
at  the  root  of  all  conscientious  government 
service — the  good  of  the  country.  Their 
service  becomes  simply  a  ladder  by  which 
they  can  mount  upwards  towards  the  making 
of  a  career,  and  any  means  seems  justifiable 
to  attain  this  end.  Already  in  childhood 
these  young  people  are  familiar  with  con- 
versations about  promotions  and  honours, 
and  their  souls  early  imbibe  the  poison  that 
makes  worldlings  and  cynics.  Their  wives 
also  cannot  influence  them  for  good,  since 
they,  too,  in  the  majority  of  cases  grow 
up  in  the  same  official  circles,  and  see 


THE  EMIGRANT  7 

nothing  blameworthy  in  career-hunting.  On 
the  contrary,  they  intrigue  and  help  and 
encourage  their  husbands  in  the  rush  for 
advantageous  appointments. 

To  a  fresh  young  soul  such  as  Irene's  the 
cynicism  of  "  officialdom's  "  conversations  and 
ideals  could  not  but  stand  out  in  all  its  true 
ugliness,  causing  her  to  turn  away,  sick  with 
disillusionment  and  disgust.  She  regarded 
this  whole  spirit  of  self-advancement-at-any- 
price  with  the  profoundest  contempt,  and  con- 
sidered it  low  and  vulgar  and  worthy  only  of 
menials.  Her  father,  holding  his  noble  birth 
in  high  honour,  had  instilled  into  his  daughter 
the  assurance  that  her  aristocratic  antecedents 
placed  her  on  a  level  with  all  the  de  Rohans 
and  de  Montmorencys  in  the  world.  She 
regarded  decorations  and  titles  and  social 
honours  with  contempt,  and  could  not  under- 
stand how  anybody  could  attach  importance 
to  such  toys.  Her  means  were  sufficient  to 
ensure  lifelong  freedom  from  care ;  luxury, 
however,  did  not  attract  her,  for  Irene  was  an 
idealist,  who  looked  upon  love,  pure,  sanctified 
love,  as  the  greatest  happiness  life  could  offer. 


8  THE  EMIGRANT 

Had  she  been  English  or  American,  this 
lonely  girl  would  not  have  been  content  with 
her  limited  circle  of  acquaintances,  and  would 
have  gone  in  search  of  her  hero  through  the 
length  and  breadth  not  only  of  Russia,  but 
of  all  Europe. 

Irene,  however,  was  Russian,  and  there- 
fore placid  and  unenterprising  !  So  she  not 
only  did  not  travel,  but  had  not  the  energy, 
even  at  home  in  Petrograd,  to  look  round 
and  make  sure  that  her  hero  was  not  con- 
cealed somewhere  in  the  social  circles  of  the 
capital.  She  profoundly  despised  the  pitiful 
types  she  met  in  society,  and  though  sick  at 
heart,  waited  patiently  and  untiringly  for  the 
one  man  before  whom  she  was  destined  some 
day  to  bow  her  head.  Her  own  individual 
faith  was  largely  responsible  for  this  patient, 
confident  expectation.  Already  in  her  early 
childhood,  Irene  had  worked  out  for  herself 
her  own  personal  credo,  in  the  place  of  which, 
without  understanding  it  in  the  least,  most 
people  unthinkingly  accept  the  religion  offici- 
ally adopted  by  the  State.  Her  faith,  of 
course,  rested  upon  a  Christian  basis — but 


THE  EMIGRANT  9 

her  Christianity  was  of  the  kind  that  shapes 
itself  according  to  the  varying  idiosyncrasies 
of  every  individual  believer's  soul  and 
mind. 

Irene  firmly  believed  that  in  spite  of  the 
perpetual  struggle  between  good  and  evil, 
good  is  incomparably  the  stronger  of  the 
two,  and  must  always  triumph.  Therefore, 
people  desirous  of  attaining  happiness,  must 
as  a  first  step  be  just  and  honourable,  and 
never  offend  nor  hurt  anyone.  Then,  and 
then  only,  can  God  send  them  peace  and 
success  in  all  their  undertakings,  and  then 
only  can  they  be  happy  without  the  smallest 
struggle  or  effort  to  attain  this  natural 
happiness.  Irene  believed  in  this  so  firmly 
and  deeply,  that  it  always  amazed  her  to  see 
people  winning  success  and  worldly  goods  by 
means  of  intrigue  and  dishonesty. 

"  The  madmen !" — she  thought  to  herself 
— "how  can  they  not  realize  that  they  are 
building  up  their  well-being  on  sand,  and 
that  each  dishonest  action  may  turn  out  to 
be  the  one  rotten  beam  through  which  the 
whole  edifice  will  fall  to  pieces  ?" 


io  THE  EMIGRANT 

Irene  often  endeavoured  to  explain  her 
theory  to  other  people,  and  was  always  as- 
tonished at  their  lack  of  trust  in  God's  help, 
and  their  incomparably  greater  faith  in  their 
own  "  smartness "  and  roguery.  How  did 
these  blind  mules  manage  not  to  see  what 
was,  to  her,  clear  as  day  ?  And  Irene  pro- 
foundly regretted  that  she  was  not  endowed 
with  oratorical  gifts,  by  means  of  which  she 
might  have  helped  to  save  these  people  from 
needlessly  wasting  and  misdirecting  their 
energies. 

The  silent,  dreamy  girl  carefully  observed 
the  lives  of  her  acquaintances,  and  every 
time  that  any  of  them  achieved  some  suc- 
cess, or  suffered  some  misfortune,  she  tried 
to  account  for  this  circumstance  by  one  or 
other  of  their  preceding  actions.  I  am  afraid 
that  in  her  eagerness  to  prove,  even  to  her- 
self, the  justice  of  her  theory,  she  often 
deceived  herself,  and  dragged  in  irrelevant 
facts.  She  was  sincerely  happy  at  the  sight 
of  virtue  rewarded,  and,  though  naturally 
anything  but  cruel  or  revengeful,  she  never- 
theless rejoiced  triumphantly  when  wicked- 


THE  EMIGRANT  n 

ness  was  laid  low  !  It  is  true  that  occasionally, 
under  the  influence  of  scientific  books,  which, 
as  the  years  passed,  held  an  ever-increasing 
attraction  for  Irene,  she  said  to  herself  that 
people  were  wicked  owing  to  the  particular 
construction  of  their  skulls  or  spinal  cords, 
and  were  as  innocent  of  their  own  vice  as  the 
tiger  is  innocent  of  his  carnivorous  nature. 
In  the  same  way,  it  followed  that  it  was  not 
only  natural  and  easy  for  good  people  to  be 
good,  but  that  it  would  be  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult for  them  to  act  dishonestly,  or  in  any  way 
contrary  to  their  natures.  There  was,  indeed, 
according  to  this  theory,  no  such  thing  as 
the  eternal  struggle  between  good  and  evil — 
there  were  only  on  the  one  side  healthy  and 
therefore  honest  natures,  and  on  the  other, 
morally  diseased  and,  therefore,  cruel  or 
vicious  ones.  But  when  Irene  began  to 
meditate  on  these  ideas,  there  arose  in  her 
poor  head  such  a  confused  chaos  of  tangled 
thoughts,  that  she  hastily  banished  all  scien- 
tific propositions,  and  returned  to  her  old 
faith,  in  which  everything  was  clear  and 
simple. 


12  THE  EMIGRANT 

Irene  worked  carefully  and  untiringly  at 
herself  and  her  own  moral  and  mental 
development.  She  not  only  did  not  admit 
of  any  dishonourable  action,  but  severely 
admonished  and  persecuted  herself  for  every 
bad  thought,  every  shade  of  feeling,  that 
tended  towards  envy  or  revenge.  And  so, 
as  always  happens  when  one  works  long  and 
obstinately  for  the  achievement  of  a  certain 
result,  Irene  really  succeeded  in  raising  her 
own  honour  and  integrity  to  a  point  be- 
yond reproach.  The  loftier  grew  her  own 
ideal,  however,  the  more  difficult  she  found 
it  to  reconcile  herself  to  the  weaknesses 
of  others.  Day  by  day,  her  requirements 
in  connection  with  her  unknown  hero  in- 
creased, and  day  by  day  he  became  always 
more  difficult  to  find.  She  submitted  every 
man  who  crossed  her  path  to  so  severe  an 
examination  that  not  one  passed  through  it 
successfully.  The  young  married  women  of 
her  acquaintance,  noticing  how  wistfully  she 
looked  at  their  children,  advised  her  to 
marry,  even  without  love,  only  to  become  a 
mother  and  thus  attain  the  one  real  aim,  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  13 

one  true  happiness  that  life  can  give  to  a 
woman.  Irene  listened  to  their  advice  with 
amazement.  According  to  her  ideas,  a  woman 
had  no  right  to  bring  a  new  life  into  the  world 
unless  she  had  found  a  man  who  could  pass  on 
to  the  child  only  the  highest  and  most  irre- 
proachable moral  qualities.  Such  an  idea  is,  of 
course,  fundamentally  good  and  logical — but, 
unfortunately,  it  is  also  somewhat  difficult  to 
carry  out!  Nature  is  so  fantastic  and  capricious, 
that  sometimes  a  child  may  bear  no  likeness 
whatever  to  its  ideal  parents,  but  may  bear  a 
striking  and  very  unwelcome  resemblance  to 
some  long-forgotten  black  sheep  great-grand- 
father !  On  the  whole,  indeed,  resignation, 
and  faith  in  God's  mercy,  are  the  most  suit- 
able frames  of  mind  in  this  connection  ;  but 
these  are  frames  of  mind  that  one  could 
hardly  expect  from  Irene !  Idealists  who 
passionately  believe  in  their  ideals,  hypnotize 
themselves  and  become  the  slaves  of  their 
own  thoughts. 

At  thirty,  in  order  to  avoid  any  future 
moral  torment  at  the  appearance  of  a  grey 
hair  or  a  decayed  tooth,  Irene  decided  that 


i4  THE  EMIGRANT 

she  was  an  old  woman,  and  that  there  was 
no  longer  any  occasion  to  think  about  love. 
She  began  to  dress  always  in  black,  and 
assumed  with  men  the  air  of  an  old  maiden 
aunt.  Her  dream  now  was  only  of  friend- 
ship, and  she  longed  for  the  warmth  of  a 
friendly  hearth. 

Her  women  friends,  however,  did  not  be- 
lieve in  her  sincerity,  did  not  consider  her  as 
old  as  she  imagined  herself  to  be,  and  were 
afraid  for  their  husbands.  Year  by  year, 
Irene  felt  herself  to  be  always  increasingly 
lonely  and  isolated,  and  then,  suddenly,  came 
the  Japanese  War. 

Pride  in  Russia,  and  in  Russia's  might  and 
wealth  and  brilliant  future,  was  one  of  Irene's 
greatest  joys.  The  Russian  people  seemed 
to  her  to  be  a  race  of  chivalrous  knights,  ever 
ready  to  fight  for  truth  and  Christianity,  and 
to  defend  the  weak  and  the  persecuted.  When 
the  Japanese  War  broke  out,  she  asked  her- 
self, with  the  sincerest  astonishment,  how 
such  pitiful  monkeys  ever  could  have  declared 
war  on  such  indomitable  knights.  She  even 
pitied  the  Japanese  for  having  fallen  victims 


THE  EMIGRANT  15 

to  such  madness  !  Her  despair  and  suffering 
at  the  news  of  our  first  failures  is  therefore  easy 
to  imagine.  None  of  Irene's  near  relations 
were  at  the  war,  but  each  of  our  losses,  never- 
theless, found  its  echo  in  her  heart,  like  a  per- 
sonal misfortune.  Overwhelmed  with  grief, 
she  attached  no  importance  either  to  the 
Russian  revolution,  or  to  the  reforms  that 
followed.  Like  all  passionate  idealists  when 
their  ideal  is  shattered,  Irene  rushed  to  the 
other  extreme — that  of  a  profound  contempt 
for  Russia. 

Everything  became  cold  and  indifferent  to 
her  in  her  homeland.  She  no  longer  believed 
in  anybody  ;  she  trusted  neither  the  masses 
nor  the  educated  classes.  They  were  all  cow- 
ards, they  were  all  narrow,  lazy,  and  ignorant. 
She  began  to  go  abroad  more  frequently. 
There,  in  contrast,  everything  pleased  her 
immensely.  She  admired  the  German  peasants 
for  their  love  of  work,  the  Swiss  for  their  order- 
liness, the  French  for  their  wit.  In  old  days, 
after  having  passed  three  months  abroad,  she 
had  always  grown  homesick,  and  on  reaching 
the  Russian  frontier,  had  felt  inclined  to  em- 


16  THE  EMIGRANT 

brace  the  very  railway  porters  for  their  good- 
humoured  Slavonic  faces !  Now,  she  re- 
turned home  with  regret,  found  fault  with 
Russian  arrangements,  and  looked  with  dis- 
gust at  the  endless,  monotonous  fields,  at  the 
dull,  slumbering  type  of  life  and  nature  that 
slipped  placidly  along  outside  the  windows 
of  the  sleepy  train. 

Her  contempt  for  Russia  was  encouraged 
by  the  countless  critical  and  scathing  articles 
that  appeared  in  the  newspapers  as  a  result 
of  the  newly  granted  freedom  of  the  Press. 
According  to  these  articles  all  Russia's  re- 
sources had  been  used  up  by  drink  and  by 
robbery,  and  the  whole  country  was  in  a 
state  of  ruin  and  primitive  savagery.  They 
did  not  attempt  to  explain  why,  all  this  being 
so,  Russia  had  not,  long  ago,  died  of  starva- 
tion and  famine,  why  our  government  stock 
stood  higher  than  before  the  war,  and  why 
Europe  set  as  much  value  as  ever  on  Rus- 
sian opinion.  But  Irene,  like  most  women, 
did  not  measure  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the 
newspaper  accusations.  They  were  in  tune 
with  her  pessimistic  mood,  and  she  no  longer 


THE  EMIGRANT  17 

believed  in   Russia,  just  as   she    no  longer 
believed  in  her  own  happiness. 

The  most  cruel  pain  of  all,  however,  was 
that  occasioned  by  a  gradually  awakening 
doubt  about  the  justice  of  her  own  beliefs. 
It  seemed  to  her  that,  logically,  it  was  time 
God  rewarded  her  in  some  way  for  her 
scrupulous  honesty,  and  she  suffered  at  the 
absence  of  this  reward.  In  observing  the 
lives  of  others,  Irene  could  persuade  herself 
that  if  they  had  no  outward  success,  they 
enjoyed  the  greater  blessing  of  inner  peace 
and  happiness.  It  was  difficult,  however, 
to  deceive  her  own  self  in  this  matter ;  for, 
indeed,  poor  Irene  not  only  had  no  happi- 
ness, but  the  boon  of  inner  peace  had  not 
even  been  granted  to  her.  Her  soul  had 
been  wounded,  torn,  immersed  in  darkness 
and  despair,  from  which  there  seemed  no 
escape.  And  yet  there,  before  her  very  eyes, 
wicked  and  dishonourable  people  triumphed 
and  rejoiced.  How  was  this  to  be  explained  ? 
Could  her  credo  have  been  a  mistake,  could 
she  have  been  struggling  and  wandering  all 
her  life  along  the  wrong  path  ?  Such  an 


1 8  THE  EMIGRANT 

admission  would  have  been,  for  Irene,  equal 
to  suicide — for  she  could  never  have  recon- 
ciled herself  to  a  world  in  which  only  wicked- 
ness and  deceit  triumph. 

Life  in  Russia  grew  at  last  so  unbearable 
that  she  decided  to  emigrate.  Her  first  idea 
was  to  go  and  live  in  England,  with  which 
country  she  was  acquainted  through  the 
medium  of  her  beloved  English  novels.  By 
chance,  however,  Zola's  "  Rome,"  with  its 
magnificent  descriptions  of  Roman  life,  fell 
into  her  hands,  and  she  suddenly  felt  drawn 
towards  Italy.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  we 
find  her,  on  this  warm  autumn  day,  sitting  in 
the  garden  of  the  Monte  Pincio. 


II 

IRENE'S  first  impression  on  arriving  in  Rome 
was  one  of  disappointment.  Her  imagina- 
tion was  impregnated  with  visions  of  the 
Roman  Forum,  of  proud  Romans  in  togas, 
of  fighting  gladiators,  of  the  splendour  of  the 
Emperors  and  the  dazzling  luxury  of  the  papal 
court.  What  wonder,  then,  if  she  almost 
resented  the  many-storied  houses,  the  shops, 
the  tramways,  and  the  prosaic  crowd  in  its 
ugly,  contemporary  attire  ? 

Her  disappointment,  however,  was  only 
transitory,  and  in  spite  of  her  depressed  and 
gloomy  state  of  mind,  the  magic  charm  of 
Rome  soon  won  the  day  over  her  low  spirits. 
It  is  always,  indeed,  difficult  for  a  northener 
to  resist  the  sparkling  and  effervescent  sense 
of  gaiety  which  awakens  in  his  heart  under 
the  rays  of  the  southern  sun. 

19 


20  THE  EMIGRANT 

At  first,  only  the  mediaeval  portion  of  the 
town  absorbed  and  attracted  Irene.  She 
spent  days  in  wandering  through  labyrinths 
of  narrow,  dirty,  unpaved  streets,  where 
people,  horses,  donkeys,  tramways,  and 
bicycles  moved  along,  an  apparently  inex- 
tricable mass,  in  the  uneven  roadway.  She 
felt  sad  and  sick  at  heart  at  sight  of  the 
miserable  dwellings  —  rather  hovels  than 
houses — in  which,  till  the  present  day,  the 
poor  of  Rome  find  shelter.  What  a  contrast 
between  these  wretched  abodes  and  the 
magnificence  of  the  neighbouring  Palazzos, 
with  their  splendid  courtyards  and  marble 
colonnades  enclosing  little  gardens  overgrown 
with  palms  and  orange-trees !  Even  the 
luxury  of  the  Palazzos,  however,  depressed 
Irene.  Her  mind  wandered  back  to  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  found  the  key  to  all  the  cruelty  and 
injustice  of  those  dark,  bygone  days.  How 
could  kindness  and  honour  and  mercy  flourish 
in  such  gloomy  palaces,  in  such  dismal  narrow 
alleys  where  God's  sunlight  never  penetrated  ? 
No  wonder,  indeed,  if  humanity,  having  at 


THE  EMIGRANT  21 

last  thrown  off  the  mediaeval  regime,  hastened, 
immediately  after  the  French  Revolution,  to 
escape  from  these  labyrinths  of  dark  and 
crooked  alleys,  and  invented  a  new  type  of 
towns,  whose  streets  were  broad  and  flooded 
with  sunshine. 

The  only  bright  spots  that  relieved,  to 
Irene,  the  gloom  of  mediaeval  Rome,  were 
the  Piazzas,  with  their  gorgeous  fountains. 
Here  was  the  best  place  for  observing  the 
Roman  crowd,  a  crowd  always  interesting 
and  characteristic,  even  though  robbed,  in 
these  days,  of  its  picturesque  national  costume. 

There  is  a  woman,  hatless  and  coatless,  in 
spite  of  the  cold  winter's  day,  sitting  by  the 
fountain  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  drawing 
water  and  finishing  her  bambino's  toilet  in 
the  open  air.  Opposite  her,  on  the  doorstep 
of  someone's  house,  a  young  carpenter  is  rest- 
ing, having  left  the  new  table  he  was  carrying 
to  a  customer  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  in 
everyone's  way.  The  slight  frown  on  his 
pink,  dirty  face  distinctly  says :  "  Gone  are 
the  good  old  times  !  Where  are  the  bandits 
that  used  to  hide  among  the  ruins  of  the  Cam- 


22  THE  EMIGRANT 

pagna,  and  receive  with  open  arms  fellows 
like  me,  who  love  a  gay,  careless  life,  and 
have  no  mission  for  hard  work  ?" 

His  brothers  in  spirit,  healthy,  happy,  lazy, 
young  scamps,  are  loitering  about  the  Piazza, 
with  boxes  of  cheap  mosaic  trinkets,  smiling 
caressingly   at   passing    Englishwomen,   and 
saucily  offering  them  their  goods  :  "  Des  mo- 
sa'iques,  madame  ?   Tres  jolies  et  pas  cheres  !" 
There  is  a  passing  vetturino  (cabman)  raising 
his  finger,  and  gazing  fixedly  at  \heforestiere 
(foreigner),  implying  with  look  and  gesture 
an  obliging  readiness  to  drive  him  to  the  end 
of  the  earth.    Leaning  against  a  column,  there 
stands  the  plague  of  contemporary  Rome :  a 
middle-aged  guide,  with  the  face  of  a  bene- 
volent old  father  who  has  had  no  luck  in  life. 
He  is  muffled  up  in  a  brightly  coloured  scarf, 
and  with  a  massive  walking-stick  in  his  hand, 
he  lingers  beside  a  historical  monument  and 
awaits  his  victim,  the  next  unsuspecting  and 
simple  passing  tourist.    He  stares  gloomily  at 
a  crowd  of  shrieking  street  urchins,  who  have 
just   emerged    from   a    neighbouring    alley. 
They  are  supposed  to  be  selling  newspapers, 


THE  EMIGRANT  23 

but  actually  they  are  eternally  fighting,  rolling 
in  the  dust,  throwing  about  and  soiling  the 
newly  printed  journals.  They  are  dispersed 
and  driven  away  with  a  stick  by  a  tall,  bent 
old  man,  picturesquely  draped  in  an  enormous 
grey  cloth  cloak  with  a  fur  collar.  This  gar- 
ment the  old  man  has  dragged  as  a  remem- 
brance from  the  shoulders  of  a  late  faithful 
lodger,  recently  deceased  at  an  extreme  old 
age.  The  inconsolable  landlord  is  going  to  a 
festa,  one  of  those  solemn  Masses,  with  a  Car- 
dinal officiating,  which  are  celebrated  almost 
every  day  in  one  or  other  of  Rome's  innumer- 
able churches.  Behind  his  indescribably  dirty 
ear,  that  has  never  been  washed  since  his 
birth,  he  has  tucked  a  red  carnation,  as  a  sign 
of  respect  to  the  saint  whose  memory  he  is 
going  to  honour. 

Suddenly,  a  group  of  wandering  musicians 
show  themselves  on  the  Piazza..  One  plays 
the  violin,  another  blows  a  trumpet,  while  a 
third,  in  a  broken  top- hat  and  a  rusty  over- 
coat, sings  canzonettas,  and  dances.  Imme- 
diately, a  crowd  collects.  At  all  the  open 
windows  appear  signoras  with  black  eyes  and 


24  THE  EMIGRANT 

raven  tresses,  pushing  away  with  their  hands 
the  rags  hung  out  to  dry.  They  are  all  laugh- 
ing and  screaming  and  chattering,  they  are  all 
happy.  This  is  still  the  same  pleasure-loving 
ancient-Roman  crowd,  living  more  in  the 
street  than  at  home,  and  revelling  in  anything 
in  the  nature  of  a  pageant.  Arrange  a  gladi- 
ator's fight  to-morrow  in  the  Colosseum,  and 
they  will  all  rush  to  the  spot,  and  applaud  the 
victor  as  passionately  as  ever  did  their  an- 
cestors. 

Sometimes  these  Piazzas  are  the  scenes  of 
antiquarian  markets.  Light  wooden  booths 
are  erected  for  the  sale  of  old  cassocks  and 
other  priestly  vestments,  pieces  of  material, 
embroideries,  lace,  old  brooches,  bracelets, 
fans,  candlesticks  in  the  shape  of  antique 
lamps,  books  printed  on  faded  yellow  parch- 
ment, pictures,  and  statuettes.  All  this  is 
bought  up  fast  and  feverishly  by  English- 
women and  Americans,  whom  the  wily 
Romans  deceive  in  the  most  ungodly  manner. 

On  one  such  occasion,  Irene,  to  her  cost, 
asked  the  price  of  a  piece  of  lace.  The  ven- 
dor, having  asked  a  hundred  lire,  followed 


THE  EMIGRANT  25 

her  twice  round  the  Piazza.,  lowering  his  price 
at  each  step,  and  setting  out  in  detail  all  the 
tragic  circumstances  that  were  forcing  him  to 
part  with  such  a  treasure.  He  had  received 
the  lace  as  a  present  from  the  Marquise  Ab- 
rakadabra-Abrakadabrini.  This  highly  aris- 
tocratic name  was  undoubtedly  familiar  to  the 
signora  ?  His  "  mamma  "  had  been  the  wet- 
nurse  of  the  young  Marchesina,  so  that  he, 
Beppo,  was  her  foster-brother.  He  had  hoped 
to  mend  his  fortunes  for  life  by  selling  this 
priceless  lace,  but  poverty  (he  spoke  with 
great  pathos,  tragically  smiting  his  chest) — 
poverty,  signora,  was  obliging  him  to  act 
hurriedly,  and  to  abandon  his  last  hope.  At 
least,  he  had  the  one  consolation  of  knowing 
that  this  family  treasure  was  falling  into  the 
hands  of  such  a  sympathetic  signora — "  Look 
out  /"  he  screamed  suddenly,  clutching  hold 
of  the  shafts  of  a  cab  that  threatened  to  run 
them  over.  He  was  only  too  happy  to  have 
been  able  to  render  the  signora  two  services : 
first,  that  of  saving  her  life,  since,  but  for  his 
intervention,  the  vetturino  would  undoubtedly 
have  run  over  her  ;  and  second,  that  of  sell- 


26  THE  EMIGRANT 

ing  her,  for  a  song,  a  priceless  piece  of  lace, 
in  which  the  signora  would  look  as  beautiful 
as  a  queen. 

When  he  had  dropped  his  price  from  a 
hundred  lire  to  twenty,  Irene,  only  too  anxious 
to  be  rid  of  her  irksome  follower,  paid  him, 
and  ^hurried  away  with  her  purchase,  for  which 
she  had  not  only  lost  all  interest,  but  which 
she  by  that  time  positively  detested.  On  her 
return  home,  she  showed  it  to  the  landlord  of 
her  pension.  He  shook  his  head  pityingly, 
twirled  his  finger  in  front  of  his  nose, 
smacked  his  lips,  and  announced  that  "la 
pauvre  signorina  a  ete  volee  comme  dans  un 
bois." 

Irene  began  to  think  that  old,  mediaeval 
Rome  had  bewitched  her.  On  many  occa- 
sions, she  started  out  with  the  intention  ot 
visiting  some  museum  or  picture  gallery,  but 
always  it  was  as  if  some  magic  power  was 
drawing  her  towards  those  dingy  streets,  with 
their  stench  and  their  dirt,  and  their  smell  of 
cookery,  where  the  poor  of  Rome  were  pre- 
paring their  unceremonious  dinners  out-of- 
doors.  Perhaps,  indeed,  she  may  have  felt 


THE  EMIGRANT  27 

that  there  was  something  in  common  between 
those  gloomy  localities  and  her  own  joyless 
life. 

She  was  greatly  attracted  by  one  grim- 
looking  palace,  situated  at  a  particularly 
dingy,  dirty  spot,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Ghetto.  A  terrible  deed  had  once  been 
perpetrated  in  this  palace.  Its  owner,  that 
famous  Cenci,  so  noted  for  his  depravity, 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Beatrice,  the  daughter 
of  his  first  marriage,  and  persecuted  her  with 
his  shameful  desires.  The  whole  family  rose 
against  the  mad  old  villain,  and,  under  the 
influence  of  her  brothers  and  her  step-mother, 
Beatrice  poisoned  her  father.  The  crime  was 
discovered,  Beatrice  was  imprisoned,  made  a 
full  confession,  and  was  executed. 

Having  heard  by  chance  that  a  famous 
portrait  of  Beatrice  Cenci,  the  work  of  Guido 
Reni,  is  preserved  at  the  Palazzo  Barberini, 
Irene  went  to  see  it.  She  expected  to  see  a 
queenly,  tragic  'beauty,  and  found,  instead, 
a  simple  girl,  almost  a  child,  in  the  very 
springtime  of  life — an  innocent  young  soul 
to  whom  love  and  passion  can  as  yet  have 


28  THE  EMIGRANT 

had  no  meaning.  The  artist  has  represented 
her  in  prison,  dressed  in  the  white  prisoners' 
attire.  Her  little  face  is  worn  and  drawn 
through  sleepless  nights,  her  beautiful  eyes 
are  red  with  tears,  her  little  childish  lips  are 
swollen,  just  as  all  children's  lips  are  swollen 
when  they  cry.  The  whole  touching  little 
face  seemed  to  say  quite  clearly:  "Yes — I 
am  a  criminal !  Everyone  tells  me  that  I 
must  pay  for  my  crime  with  my  life ;  that  I 
must  leave  the  lovely  world  that  I  love  so 
much,  leave  the  sunshine  and  the  birds  and 
the  flowers,  and  go  away  into  a  cold  tomb. 
What  can  I  do  ?  I  have  no  strength  to  pro- 
test !  But  you,  who  will  live  instead  of  me, 
do  not  curse  poor  Beatrice  !  Love  her !  Pity 
her !" 

Irene's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  looked 
at  this  martyred  child,  and  she  hid  her  face 
under  her  veil  to  hide  her  emotion.  Other 
visitors  to  the  Palazzo  Barberini  were  also 
weeping  and  trying  to  conceal  their  tears. 

"  You  are  revenged,  little  Beatrice!"  thought 
Irene.  "  Thousands  are  weeping  at  your  sad 
fate,  and  are  cursing  your  tyrants." 


THE  EMIGRANT  29 

Irene  soon  became  known  in  her  pension 
as  the  tourist  who  had  been  living  in  Rome 
for  three  months  and  had  not  seen  the 
Forum.  All  the  Englishwomen  in  the  house, 
deeply  shocked  at  this  omission,  persuaded, 
implored,  and  at  last  forcibly  dragged  her 
there.  From  that  moment,  the  charms  of 
the  mediaeval  city  vanished  for  her,  and 
she  lost  herself  entirely  in  the  antique 
world. 

The  weather  was  warm  and  sunny.  The 
colossal  walls  of  ruined  ancient  palaces  and 
shrines,  that  must  surely  have  been  built  for 
giants,  stood  out  in  relief  against  the  blue 
sky.  The  silence  was  intense,  the  Roman 
season  had  not  yet  begun.  Unknown  crowds 
of  English  travellers  had  not  yet  descended 
from  the  Swiss  mountains,  nor  sailed  across 
the  waters  from  Egypt.  Irene  felt  quite  at 
home  among  the  ruins.  She  wandered  for 
days  among  the  ruins  of  the  Forum  and  the 
Palatine,  trying  to  imagine  the  life  of  the 
past,  when  the  sun  shone  down  not  on  the 
crumbling  stones  before  her  but  on  a  world 
of  glistening  marble  and  pagan  luxury ;  when 


30  THE  EMIGRANT 

the  immense  sculptured  gods,  sheltered  at  pre- 
sent in  the  galleries  of  the  Vatican,  rose  on 
their  pedestals  high  above  the  heads  of  the 
gorgeous  crowd  with  its  classic  draperies  and 
its  garlands  of  flowers,  worshipping,  offering 
sacrifices,  burning  incense.  What  a  beautiful, 
gay,  triumphant  picture !  Why  did  it  all 
end  ?  What  could  have  driven  these  people 
away  from  their  beloved  green  hills,  down  to 
the  unhealthy  banks  of  the  Tiber  and  those 
dirty,  dark  alleys  ?  And  why  are  people 
now  in  their  turn  moving  away  from  these 
alleys  and  returning  to  the  hills  and  the  sun- 
shine, and  a  new,  healthier  life  ? 

For  the  first  time  the  thought  occurred  to 
Irene  that  the  world,  like  each  individual 
human  being,  must  gradually  pass  through 
all  the  different  periods  of  life.  First,  the 
early  years,  with  their  faltering  steps  and 
their  uncertain  memory.  Then,  at  about  five 
years  old,  the  beginning  of  gay,  happy,  early 
childhood,  white  raiment,  crowns  and  garlands 
and  flowers,  dance  and  song  and  laughter 
and  summer-time.  Dolls  are  indispensable  at 
this  age — modelled  of  clay,  hewn  out  of  stone, 


THE  EMIGRANT  31 

carved  in  wood,  at  first  very  primitive  and 
clumsy  like  those  of  the  Egyptians,  then 
always  more  and  more  lifelike,  and  finally  per- 
fected by  the  Greeks.  And  like  a  child  who, 
having  made  itself  a  rag  doll,  takes  it  seriously 
and  endows  it  with  all  sorts  of  qualities,  so  the 
Greeks  and  Romans  place  the  gods  they  have 
made  on  pedestals,  and  call  them  Jupiter  the 
terrible,  Venus  the  passionate,  Amor  the  little 
rogue,  Minerva  the  wise,  etc. 

They  dance  around  their  gods  with  the 
careless  gaiety  of  childhood ;  they  love  gor- 
geous processions,  banquets,  chariot-racing, 
and  gladiators'  fights  for  life  or  death,  upon 
which  they  look  with  laughter,  since  pity 
is  to  them,  as  to  all  children,  a  thing  un- 
known. 

But  time  passes,  and  the  child  grows  older. 
New  ideas  and  requirements  awaken  in  him  ; 
games  and  gaiety  lose  their  interest.  He 
grows  pensive,  pale,  and  thin,  and  he  feels 
the  need  of  suffering  and  tears.  Irene  re- 
membered how,  at  the  age  of  seven,  she  had 
suddenly  experienced  a  great  desire  to  fast 
during  all  the  seven  weeks  of  Lent.  Pale, 


32  THE  EMIGRANT 

fragile  child  as  she  had  been,  such  privation 
had  weakened  her  terribly ;  but  incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  with  a  strength  gleaned 
Heaven  knows  from  where,  she  had  actually 
held  out  to  the  end !  She  remembered  also 
certain  religious  pilgrimages  in  the  small 
provincial  town,  near  which  she  had  some- 
times passed  the  summer  with  her  father. 
Many  a  time  in  the  torrid  heat  of  a  sultry 
July  day  had  she  walked  for  four  or  five 
hours  through  clouds  of  dust,  along  a  rough, 
uneven  road,  in  a  procession  behind  an  ikon, 
returning  home  half  dead  with  fatigue,  but 
unable  to  sleep,  through  sheer  religious  exal- 
tation. Her  thoughts,  too,  wandered  back 
to  the  neighbouring  convent,  whither  she 
had  often  gone  to  pray,  and  where,  having 
attended  vespers,  she  had  sometimes  stood 
through  the  whole  night  in  prayer,  soaring 
on  the  wings  of  a  religious  ecstasy,  and  feel- 
ing no  fatigue.  Her  young  soul  had  needed 
these  raptures,  fasts,  and  prayers.  It  had 
needed  also  the  food  of  legends,  and  the 
more  wonderful,  the  more  supernatural  these 
legends  the  dearer  had  they  grown  to  her 


THE  EMIGRANT  33 

imagination.     Her  mind  had  acknowledged 
no  logic,  and  had  needed  none. 

Did  not  the  same  thing  happen  to  the 
world  in  the  Middle  Ages,  that  period  of 
Humanity's  later  childhood  ?  Christianity,  or 
rather  its  rites  and  ceremonies  (since  its  real 
meaning  was  unattainable  to  these  children), 
was  accepted  with  enthusiasm,  because  these 
rites  and  ceremonies  exactly  answered  the 
requirements  of  the  age :  ecstasy,  martyrdom, 
torture  rapturously  borne,  na'ive  and  lovely 
legends.  Humanity  would  have  no  more  of 
dolls  and  toys,  and  wrathfully  destroyed  the 
statues  of  the  gods.  Later  on,  in  more  recent 
times,  those  same  people  tenderly  and  lovingly 
collected  the  broken  fragments  of  the  statues 
and  preserved  them  in  their  museums  as 
cherished  remembrances  of  childhood.  It  is 
thus  that  a  grown-up  man  will  pay  a  large 
sum  for  a  broken  doll,  or  for  a  faded  coloured 
print  that  amused  him  in  his  early  days. 

Just  as  modelling  is  the  heritage  of  baby- 
hood, so  painting  is  the  delight  of  childhood. 
First  come  naive  little  drawings,  like  the  work 
of  the  Primitives,  in  which  the  figures  of 

3 


34  THE  EMIGRANT 

saints  of  high  religious  rank  are  made  twice 
as  large  as  those  of  their  inferiors,  or  like  the 
pictures  of  Perugino  and  his  school,  in  which 
the  infant  Christ  is  depicted  wearing  a  coral 
ornament  similar  to  those  put  round  the  necks 
of  Italian  children  to  save  them  from  the  evil 
eye! 

Day  by  day,  art  develops  and  grows  more 
perfect,  reaching  its  apotheosis  almost  simul- 
taneously in  all  the  countries  of  Europe.  Yet 
in  all  their  magnificence  and  perfection,  some- 
thing naive  and  childlike  remains  even  in  the 
works  of  the  great  masters.  They  draw 
pictures  from  the  life  of  Christ,  for  instance, 
with  background  and  accessories  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  They  represent  some  Pope  in  all  his 
Catholic  vestments  and  with  his  papal  tiara 
kneeling  humbly  before  the  Virgin,  with  the 
Child  in  her  arms.  They  are  not  in  the  least 
disturbed  by  the  thought  that  if  a  Roman 
Pope  exists  at  all,  it  is  only  because  this 
Christ  Child  grew  up,  and  because  His 
Apostles  founded  the  Church.  Their  childish 
mind  does  not  occupy  itself  with  such  contra- 
dictions, and  Michael  Angelo  gives  to  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  35 

world  his  famous  Pieta,  a  magnificent  marble 
group,  in  which  the  Virgin  Mother  is  younger 
than  her  Son. 

The  defenceless  child,  unable  to  revenge 
himself  on  his  tyrants  and  tormentors,  loves 
to  console  himself  with  dreams  of  how  the 
Divine  Power — God  and  His  angels,  the 
Archangel  Michael  with  a  sword  in  his  hand — 
will  descend  from  heaven  to  help  him.  The 
wicked  will  be  burnt  in  hell,  and  he,  the 
offended  and  insulted  one,  will  receive  his 
reward  in  Paradise.  Had  he  not  this  dream 
and  this  consolation,  life  would  indeed  be  too 
heavy  a  burden. 

But  the  child  grows  up,  and  reaches 
adolescence.  He  stands  on  the  threshold 
of  life,  and  the  school-bench  is  left  behind 
him.  School  has  taught  him  but  little — a 
few  facts  and  some  elementary  information. 
But  he  has  learnt  to  reason  logically,  and  to 
examine  the  solid  foundations  on  which  the 
world  rests.  He  begins  to  apply  his  logic 
to  everything,  and  when  he  approaches  re- 
ligion, doubt  trembles  in  his  soul.  The 
absurd  improbability  of  the  legends  of  the 


3 6  THE  EMIGRANT 

Middle  Ages  disgusts  him,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  is  obsessed  by  the  fear  of  remaining 
without  a  religion,  a  fear  which  has  been 
inculcated  into  his  mind  by  his  entire  up- 
bringing. Calm  and  cold-blooded  people  think 
it  all  out,  and  become  confirmed  Atheists. 
Not  so,  however,  those  others  with  fervent, 
burning  souls!  Poor  Tolstoy,  in  the  wrath 
of  his  old  age,  destroys  and  insults  the  very 
elements  on  which  he  has  founded  and  formed 
his  life,  and,  having  insulted  them,  goes  to 
church  as  before,  prays  humbly  among 
beggars,  throws  himself  into  a  monastery, 
and  dies  of  despair  on  the  highway. 

How  many  such  martyrs  are  there  in  our 
days !  With  tears  and  sobs  they  fall  on  their 
knees,  stretch  forth  their  hands  to  Heaven, 
and  cry  from  the  depths  of  their  souls : 
"God!  show  me  some  miracle  that  I  may 
again  believe  in  Thee !  It  is  only  through 
Thy  wonders  and  miracles  worked  in  the 
early  days  of  Christianity  that  people  turned 
to  Thee  and  believed.  Why  were  these 
early  Christians  dearer  to  Thee  than  I  ?  I 
love  thee ;  it  is  hard  for  me  to  tear  myself 


THE  EMIGRANT  37 

away  from  Thee!  A  miracle,  a  miracle,  I 
beseech  Thee !  I  will  then  believe  anything, 
even  what  is  against  all  reason  and  logic — 
only  come  to  my  help  I  implore  Thee !  Give 
me  a  sign  or  a  miracle !" 

But  there  are  no  more  miracles,  and  death 
and  despair  enter  like  iron  into  the  soul  of 
the  sufferer. 


Ill 

LIKE  most  Roman  pensions,  that  in  which 
Irene  was  staying  was  teeming  with  old 
maids  of  all  nationalities.  There  must  be 
some  mysterious  wind  that  blows  them  from 
all  corners  of  the  earth  to  the  Eternal  City. 
They  go  there  in  the  hope  of  finding  peace 
and  spiritual  rest,  and  their  hope  is  almost 
always  justified.  What  wonder  indeed  ?  For 
Rome  is  not  a  town  ;  it  is  a  picturesque 
cemetery,  glorified  by  a  golden  sunset.  On 
active,  life-loving  people  it  produces  a  gloomy 
impression ;  but  to  those  who  let  life  slip 
past  them  this  cemetery  is  dear  and  precious. 
In  other  towns  these  lifeless  people  feel 
strange  and  out  of  place ;  the  storm  and 
stress,  the  feverish  rush  of  life  in  a  modern 
city  shocks  and  angers  them.  In  Rome  one 
cannot  think  either  of  the  present  or  the 

38 


THE  EMIGRANT  39 

future.  One's  thoughts  linger  in  the  past, 
and  one  is  interested  only  in  those  who  have 
long  ago  crumbled  into  dust  in  their  graves. 

Irene  did  not  like  old  maids.  She  saw  in 
these  "  brides  of  Christ "  something  incom- 
plete, something  eternally  expectant.  She 
avoided  their  society,  and  associated  prefer- 
ably with  married  women,  calling  herself 
jokingly  an  "  old  bachelor,"  an  appellation 
that  struck  her  as  less  disagreeable  than  the 
more  usual  one,  which  she  refused  to  admit. 

However,  having  unavoidably  come  into 
contact  with  most  of  her  fellow  visitors  at 
the  pension,  she  discovered  that  the  maiden 
ladies  of  Rome  were  unlike  their  sisters  else- 
where. They  had  peculiarly  bright,  gay, 
sometimes  even  radiant  faces.  Irene  also 
noticed  that  between  four  and  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  some  of  them  daily  began  to 
show  signs  of  agitation.  They  blushed,  made 
attempts  at  personal  elegance,  smartened  up 
their  modest  black  dresses  by  the  addition 
of  a  lace  collar  or  a  bunch  of  fresh  violets, 
solicitously  saw  to  the  arrangements  of  their 
little  tea-tables,  and  constantly  threw  im- 


40  THE  EMIGRANT 

patient  glances  at  the  door.  The  anxiously 
expected  guests  always  turned  out  to  be 
severe  and  majestic  Catholic  priests,  before 
whom  the  ladies  were  tremulously  shy.  Irene 
assumed  that  the  latter  were  probably  newly 
converted  Catholics,  and  her  supposition  was 
confirmed  by  a  charming  middle-aged  English 
lady  of  an  impoverished  but  famous  old  family, 
to  whom  Irene  felt  greatly  drawn.  Lady 
Muriel  related  that  she  had,  the  previous 
year,  during  a  stay  with  relations  in  Ireland, 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  Catholic  priest, 
"a  most  remarkable  man,"  and  that  now  she 
was  happy  to  say  she  had  been  converted  to 
the  Catholic  faith. 

"  I  had  thought,"  she  murmured,  "that  life 
was  over  for  me,  but  now  I  see  that  it  is  only 
just  beginning,  and  that  happiness  is  before 
me.  The  Catholic  faith  is  so  warm,  so  tender, 
so  consoling !" 

After  this,  Irene  observed  the  Fathers  and 
their  spiritual  daughters  with  redoubled  in- 
terest. She  was  particularly  attracted  to  an 
old  French  Dominican,  called  Pere  Etienne. 
His  mother  had  been  an  Italian,  and  he  had 


THE  EMIGRANT  41 

inherited  from  her  the  Roman  type.  "  The 
face  of  a  proud  patrician,"  thought  Irene  to 
herself.  Like  all  Romans,  Pere  Etienne  was 
severe  and  forbidding,  but  when  he  laughed, 
which  happened  often,  and  always  unex- 
pectedly, his  face  became  astonishingly  kind 
and  sympathetic,  and  almost  childlike. 

Lady  Muriel  introduced  him  to  Irene,  and 
from  her  very  first  conversation  with  him 
Irene  felt  such  a  sympathy  for  Pere  Etienne, 
that,  to  her  own  astonishment,  she  poured  out 
to  him  the  whole  story  of  her  life,  with  all  its 
doubts  and  fears  and  disappointments.  The 
priest  listened  attentively,  but  evidently  with 
disapproval,  and  when,  in  answer,  he  laughed 
a  little  at  her  faith — not  the  orthodox  faith, 
of  course,  but  her  own  personal  ideas — Irene 
felt  like  a  silly  little  girl  who  has  received  a 
scolding. 

"  You  have  invented  this  faith  yourself," 
he  said.  "It  has  nothing  in  common  with 
Christianity.  You  Russians  are  all  revolu- 
tionaries. Your  priests  do  not  teach  you  the 
principal  thing,  the  love  and  fear  of  God  and 
of  His  divine  wisdom  and  might.  Your  atti- 


42  THE  EMIGRANT 

tude  towards  God  is  quite  unceremonious. 
You  make  conditions  and  contracts  with  Him 
as  if  He  were  a  simple  mortal.  You  have  not 
advanced  far  beyond  the  ideas  of  your  fellow- 
countrymen  the  Samoyedes,  who  first  make 
sacrifices  to  their  wooden  gods  and  then  beat 
them  if  they  do  not  grant  their  prayers. 
When  you  Russians  think  you  are  passing 
from  Orthodoxy  to  Catholicism,  you  are  actu- 
ally passing  from  paganism  to  Christianity." 

"And  where  did  you  get  the  notion,"  he 
asked  on  another  occasion,  "  that  Christ  pro- 
mised His  followers  happiness  in  this  life  ? 
On  the  contrary,  Christ  said  repeatedly,  'My 
kingdom  is  not  of  this  world!  And,  indeed, 
how  could  He  reign  here,  among  the  pitiful 
creatures  who  people  this  earth,  worms  that 
strive  only  for  empty,  worldly  pleasures,  and 
cannot  raise  their  eyes  to  the  stars  ?  Were 
He  to  appear  anew  among  them,  with  His 
mild  humility  and  saintliness,  would  the  vulgar 
mind  understand  Him?  No;  our  present-day 
Christians  would  laugh  Him  to  scorn,  and 
though  they  would  not,  perhaps,  lead  Him  to 
Golgotha,  they  would  certainly  turn  away 


THE  EMIGRANT  43 

with  a  mocking  smile.  The  kingdom  of  Christ 
is  indeed  beyond  the  grave,  in  another  and 
more  perfect  world,  to  be  attained  only  by 
purified  souls  who,  already  during  their  life- 
time, have  renounced  earthly  joys,  and,  by 
means  of  meditation,  fasting,  and  prayer,  have 
conquered  the  body,  and  their  lower  natures. 
Great  joy  and  happiness  awaits  them  in 
Heaven,  and  it  is  thither,  my  daughter,  that 
your  hopes  must  be  directed.  It  is  in  the 
Kingdom  of  the  Future  that  you  must  expect 
justice,  and  not  in  this  vain  world,  from  which 
but  few  will  succeed  in  saving  their  souls." 

The  priest  spoke  with  enthusiasm.  His  face 
shone  with  the  light  of  inspiration.  It  was  as 
though  his  eyes  already  saw  the  bliss  of 
Christ's  kingdom  and  those  Heavenly  joys  of 
which  he  was  so  firmly  convinced. 

His  words  made  a  great  impression  on 
Irene.  Until  that  time,  she  had  never  thought 
much  about  the  future  life.  "  Why  trouble 
oneself,"  her  common  sense  had  argued, 
"about  something  that  no  one  has  ever  seen? 
What  must  be,  will  be,  and  premature  curi- 
osity is  useless." 


44  THE  EMIGRANT 

Now,  however,  hearing  these  burning  words 
of  Pere  Etienne,  she  involuntarily  thought  to 
herself:  "  Is  it  possible  that  he  really  believes 
what  he  says  ?"  And  at  the  same  time,  she  felt 
that  the  inspired  enthusiasm  of  the  kind  old 
priest  was  beginning  to  influence  her.  Like 
most  people  of  our  day,  Irene  was  interested 
in  hypnotism,  and  it  had  not  infrequently,  in 
moments  of  despair,  occurred  to  her  to  apply 
for  help  to  some  famous  hypnotist.  She  had 
been  restrained  only  through  fear  of  the  con- 
sequences that  might  accrue  from  putting 
herself  under  the  power  of  a  perfect  stranger. 
Supposing,  having  cured  her  of  her  gloomy 
state  of  mind,  he  should  turn  her  into  a 
criminal,  and  make  her  steal  or  murder  ? 

Now,  however,  looking  into  the  noble  face 
of  the  old  priest,  Irene  understood  and  felt 
that  he  could  lead  her  along  the  right  path. 
Oh !  if  he  could  succeed  in  giving  her  back 
her  former  faith  !  He  had  convinced  other 
poor  girls.  And  what  happiness  shone  from 
their  pale  faces ! 

Irene  caught  at  Pere  Etienne  as  a  drown- 
ing man  at  a  straw.  It  is  thus  that  a  man 


THE  EMIGRANT  45 

suffering  from  an  incurable  disease  flies  to 
some  quack  or  self-styled  magician,  gazes  exT 
citedly  at  mysterious  herbs,  and  is  already 
half  assured  that  in  them,  and  only  in  them, 
lies  salvation.  As  for  Pere  Etienne,  the  kind- 
hearted  old  man  enthusiastically  and  zealously 
threw  himself  into  the  work  of  saving  Irene's 
soul,  and  arranging  her  life. 

"You  are  deeply  mistaken,"  he  assured  her, 
"when  you  think  that  you  have  lost  time  use- 
lessly, and  have  lived  your  life  in  vain.  On 
the  contrary,  you  have  achieved  much.  You 
have  passed  through  all  your  troubles  with  a 
pure  heart.  You  have  not  made  compromises 
with  your  conscience.  You  have  looked  on 
sadly  while  goodness  and  justice  suffered,  and 
sin  was  loaded  with  honours ;  but  the  idea 
has  never  occurred  to  you — as  it  does,  alas! 
to  many — that  if  sin  is  so  successful,  why  not 
join  its  followers  ?  You  have  resisted  the 
temptation  of  such  a  thought.  Your  soul  was 
dearer  to  you  than  the  glitter  of  worldly  suc- 
cess. You  struggled  with  wicked  thoughts, 
and  emerged  victoriously  from  the  struggle. 
This  is  a  great  happiness,  my  daughter. 


46  THE  EMIGRANT 

Thank  God  for  giving  you  a  strong  will  and 
a  pure  heart.  It  is  a  sign  that  you  are  one  of 
His  chosen  ones.  But  you  must  not  stop  half- 
way. Throw  off  that  spirit  of  despair !  For- 
get all  earthly  cares  !  Draw  yourself  apart 
from  the  world  and  its  ways,  and  consecrate 
yourself  to  God.  It  is  necessary  for  you,  with- 
out losing  more  time,  to  enter  a  convent." 

"  A  convent?  "  exclaimed  Irene. 

"  Yes,  a  convent.  You  need  silence  and 
rest.  With  your  nature,  life  will  always  per- 
turb and  dismay  you.  You  do  not  understand 
that  the  triumph  of  the  wicked  is  temporary, 
and  that  they  are  all  on  the  eve  of  their  un- 
doing. You  are  unable  to  realize  this.  It  is 
necessary  for  you  to  cut  yourself  off  once  and 
for  all  from  every  contact  with  them,  to  with- 
draw yourself  into  silence,  and  to  occupy 
yourself  with  prayer  and  the  reading  of  sacred 
books.  You  are  proud  to  call  yourself  a 
Christian,  but  do  you  intimately  know  the 
Holy  Writ  ?  Have  you  often  in  your  life 
read  the  Gospel  ?  Be  sincere — confess !" 

Irene  was  obliged  to  confess,  with  a  blush, 
that  she  had  never  once  read  it  through  in 


THE  EMIGRANT  47 

its  entirety,  and  had  contented  herself  with 
what  religious  instruction  she  had  received 
at  school,  and  with  the  extracts  from  the 
Gospel  that  she  had  heard  read  out  at 
church. 

"  There !  That's  just  it.  I  had  foreseen 
that,"  exclaimed  the  priest.  "And  yet  it  is 
only  on  reading  and  studying  the  Gospel  that 
many  things  become  clear.  Read  it,  and  a 
divine  peace  will  steal  into  your  heart.  This 
great  Holy  Book  will  take,  for  you,  the  place 
of  all  others.  Day  by  day,  your  former  des- 
pair will  be  replaced  by  hope,  and  your  soul 
will  be  filled  with  joy  and  rapture.  You  have 
suffered  agonies  of  doubt,  and  you  well  know 
how  unbearable  they  are.  Now  you  stand  on 
the  threshold  of  that  incomparable  bliss  that 
only  true  faith  can  give.  Et  Dieu  viendra 
causer  avec  vous,  ma  fille.  Vous  serez  une  de 
ses  elues,  et  II  vous  honorera  de  Sa  Parole. 
Remember  the  elect  in  the  Bible,  who  were 
found  worthy  of  intercourse  with  God,  but 
who  nevertheless  remained  human." 

"  But  how  can  I  ?"  said  Irene  reflectively 
"  Leave  the  world  ?     Leave  all  human  ties 


48  THE  EMIGRANT 

and  associations  for  ever  ?  But  that  is  ter- 
rible!" 

"  What  has  that  world,  what  have  those 
human  ties  given  you  ?  ,Can  you  call  to  mind 
a  single  hour,  a  single  moment  of  real  happi- 
ness, even  the  shadow  of  happiness  ?" 

Irene  had  to  admit  the  absence  even  of 
that  shadow. 

"  There !  You  see  it  yourself.  You  are 
afraid  of  a  convent ;  but,  do  you  know  ?  you 
have  been  a  nun  for  a  long  time." 

Irene  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  so.  Look  round  at  your  own 
life.  You  live  virtuously,  you  hardly  associate 
with  men  at  alL  Balls  and  theatres  have  long 
ceased  to  interest  you.  You  dress  in  dark 
colours,  and  you  yourself  told  me  only  re- 
cently that  you  eat  very  little  meat,  but  prefer 
living  mostly  on  vegetable  diets.  You  have 
no  specially  near  and  dear  relations,  and  feel 
a  contempt  even  for  your  country.  What, 
then,  can  attach  you  to  the  world  ?" 

"Really — I  don't  know.  Liberty,  indepen- 
dence  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  in  a  convent,  also,  you  will  re- 


THE  EMIGRANT  49 

tain  the  liberty  to  think,  to  read,  to  enjoy  and 
love  nature — and  your  requirements  do  not 
go  beyond  this.  If,  for  instance,  you  were  in 
love,  and  were  dreaming  of  someone,  this 
would  be  a  great  obstacle  to  convent  life,  and 
I  should,  in  such  a  case,  be  the  first  to  dis- 
suade you  from  it.  But  I  believe  such  is  not 
the  case  ?" 

And  Pere  Etienne  gazed  scrutinizingly  into 
her  face. 

"  Oh !  you  can  set  your  heart  at  rest  about 
that,"  laughed  Irene.  Men  never  played  a 
great  part  in  my  life,  and  lately  I  have  left  off 
paying  any  attention  to  them  at  all.  Besides, 
I  really  don't  think  I  have  any  temperament." 

"Perhaps  you  may  be  greatly  mistaken!" 
The  exclamation  fell  from  the  lips  of  Pere 
Etienne  accidentally.  He  was  evidently  pro- 
voked at  his  own  careless  words,  and  hastened 
to  add  that  he  had  little  acquaintance  with 
Northern  natures. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  "if  man's  love  does 
not  attract  you,  that  is  evidently  a  special  grace 
of  God,  and  it  shows  His  particular  mercy 
to  you.  Now  is  the  time  to  flee  to  a  convent, 

4 


50  THE  EMIGRANT 

while  yet  no  human  influence  can  disturb 
your  peace.  A  late  love  would  be  a  great 
misfortune  for  you.  To  be  happy  in  the  mar- 
ried state,  one  must  enter  it  in  early  youth, 
before  the  character  of  the  girl  is  completely 
formed.  Only  on  these  conditions  does  the 
young  wife  submit  to  all  the  requirements  of 
married  life,  and  grow  gradually  accustomed 
to  them.  She  understands  the  character  of 
her  husband,  adjusts  herself  to  it,  and  so  finds 
her  happiness.  You,  having  passed  all  your 
youth  on  coldly  polite  terms  with  men,  have 
estranged  yourself  too  much  from  them.  You 
know  nothing  about  their  characters,  and 
neither  they  nor  you  could  ever  give  happi- 
ness, one  to  the  other.  There  would  only  be 
mutual  misunderstanding  and  great  suffering. 
Pray  that  this  cup  may  be  for  ever  removed 
from  you." 

"Oh  !  I  assure  you,  the  question  does  not 
interest  me  in  the  least.  Absence  of  faith 
troubles  me  infinitely  more.  How  can  I  enter 
a  convent,  when  I  do  not,  perhaps,  believe 
what  is  most  important  of  all  ?" 

Pere  Etienne  smiled  indulgently. 


THE  EMIGRANT  51 

"  Faith,"  he  answered,  "  like  everything 
else  in  the  world,  is  not  given  to  us  all  at 
once,  but  only  after  long  and  patient  effort. 
Carry  out  your  monastic  duties,  go  to  church 
and  pray  at  the  given  times,  read  sacred 
books,  and,  little  by  little,  faith  will  penetrate 
into  your  heart." 

"  But,  allow  me  !  How  is  this  ?  Do  you 
advise  me  to  pray  at  first  mechanically,  almost 
without  believing?"  asked  Irene  incredulously. 
"  But  that  would  be  hypocrisy,  a  mockery  of 
religion  !" 

"  Do  not  children  begin  by  praying  me- 
chanically ?  This  does  not  prevent  their 
praying  consciously  and  sincerely  later  on. 
It  will  be  so  with  you  also.  Do  not  let  this 
dismay  you." 

Pere  Etienne  did  not  hurry  her  to  decide  ; 
but  the  thought  of  taking  the  veil  had  sown 
its  seed  in  Irene's  heart. 

"  Yes,"  she  thought.  "  Pere  Etienne  is 
right.  After  a  certain  age,  it  is  best  for  un- 
married women  to  bury  themselves  in  con- 
vents. In  the  world,  everything  only  irritates 
and  tortures  their  souls :  little  children,  with 


52  THE  EMIGRANT 

their  adorable  little  faces,  happy  lovers,  gaz- 
ing tenderly  into  each  other's  eyes,  passionate 
music  singing  of  love,  all  this  happy,  earthly 
life,  in  which  they  have  no  place.  In  a  con- 
vent, on  the  other  hand,  far  from  worldly 
books,  papers,  news,  rumours,  their  nerves 
are  gradually  quieted,  and  a  regular  life  and 
untroubled  sleep  cures  their  tortured  souls. 

A  little  earlier,  the  idea  of  being  converted 
to  the  Roman  faith  would  have  frightened 
Irene  ;  but,  having  lived  a  few  months  in 
Rome,  she  had  grown  to  love  the  Catholic 
church  and  clergy.  From  the  first  days  of  her 
arrival,  she  had  been  interested  in  the  students 
of  the  various  theological  colleges  and  sem- 
inaries, whom,  in  their  picturesque  costumes, 
some  scarlet,  some  mauve,  some  black  with 
coloured  belts,  one  meets  in  Rome  at  every 
step.  Irene  loved  to  observe  their  intelligent 
faces,  and  their  attentive,  scrutinizing  glances. 

It  seemed  strange  to  her,  at  first,  to  see 
these  future  priests  on  the  Pincio  at  the 
fashionable  hour,  contemplating  elegant  ladies 
in  splendid  carriages,  or  to  meet  them  at  teas 
and  dinners  in  the  fashionable  hotels.  But, 


THE  EMIGRANT  53 

on  thinking  this  over,  she  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  this,  to  her,  new  and  unaccus- 
tomed Catholic  system  of  educating  the 
priesthood  was  perfectly  rational.  In  order 
to  wield  an  influence  over  the  great  social 
world,  it  is  indispensable  to  know  its  thoughts 
and  ideals,  and  to  share  its  manners,  its  bring- 
ing up,  and  its  education. 

In  their  free  time  the  students  see  Rome, 
visit  museums  and  picture-galleries,  learn  to 
distinguish  one  school  of  art  from  another, 
and  to  decipher  the  inscriptions  and  hiero- 
glyphics on  ancient  sarcophagi.  The  theo- 
logical colleges  belong  to  various  countries, 
and  among  the  students — Englishmen,  Ger- 
mans, Frenchmen  and  Poles — are  many 
people  of  good  society,  and  sons  of  famous 
aristocratic  families. 

Irene  reflected  with  some  bitterness  that 
only  in  Russia  is  the  guardianship  of  religion 
left  in  the  hands  of  grasping  peasants. 
The  very  name  of  a  seminarist  is  con- 
nected, in  Russia,  with  the  idea  of  coarse- 
ness. The  education,  the  mental  develop- 
ment of  the  priesthood  is  on  the  lowest 


54  THE  EMIGRANT 

level,  and  social  life  is  entirely  unknown 
to  them.  A  youth  who  has  barely  finished 
his  course  at  the  seminary,  is  hurriedly 
ordained,  and  rushed  off  to  some  village 
in  the  depths  of  the  country,  where  the 
sheep  of  his  fold,  rough,  wild  peasants, 
teach  their  young  pastor  to  drink.  Should 
he  have  the  luck  to  be  sent  to  a  large 
town,  his  knowledge  of  life  and  of  social 
ways  and  customs  is  so  small  that  he  can 
do  no  good  whatever  to  his  parishioners. 
On  the  contrary,  he  irritates  them  by  clumsy 
tactlessness  when  hearing  confessions,  by 
wild  sermons,  and  an  unceremonious  attitude 
towards  the  holiest  things.  He  turns  his 
church  into  a  shop,  where  he  sells  ikons, 
candles,  calendars,  and  countless  other  trifles, 
from  which  he  tries  to  make  as  good  an 
income  as  he  can.  Sick  at  heart,  Irene 
remembered  how  priests  at  home,  while 
holding  out  the  cross  to  be  kissed  by  wor- 
shippers before  leaving  church,  continued 
mumbling  a  special  service  they  were  sup- 
posed to  be  celebrating  after  Mass  in  honour 
of  some  saint,  standing  the  while  with  their 


THE  EMIGRANT  55 

backs  to  the  ikon  of  the  said  saint,  and 
hardly  troubling  to  give  the  responses  to  the 
co-officiating  deacon.  She  remembered  also 
a  scene  witnessed  at  a  service  before  a 
miracle-working  ikon,  in  a  provincial  monas- 
tery, where  the  drunken  priest  and  the 
equally  drunken  deacon  had  quarrelled  and 
abused  each  other  in  the  intervals  between 
the  prayers.  Unhappily,  indeed,  such  and 
similar  occasions  were  none  too  rare,  and 
they  rankled  in  Irene's  mind,  wounding  her 
heart  and  shaking  the  foundations  of  her 
respect  for  Orthodoxy.  Just  before  her 
departure  from  Russia,  she  had  happened 
to  be  present  at  a  little  improvised  religious 
meeting  arranged  at  the  house  of  a  friend 
for  a  small  group  of  schoolgirls  of  the  higher 
social  circles.  They  all  arrived  looking  very 
excited  and  inspired,  and  their  little  youthful 
faces  wore  serious  and  attentive  expressions. 
How  much  holiness  and  goodness  could  at 
such  a  moment  have  been  sown  in  those  inno- 
cent young  souls  by  an  enlightened  pastor ! 
And  how  did  the  Russian  priest,  invited  to 
speak  to  these  children,  use  the  occasion  ?  The 


56  THE  EMIGRANT 

serious,  solemn  old  veteran  mounted  the 
platform  and  spoke  for  a  whole  hour  about 
the  advisability  of  eating  during  Lent,  only 
the  particular  kind  of  butter  prescribed  for 
such  periods,  and  the  sinfulness  of  eating 
the  ordinary  kind ! 

Irene  had  watched  the  faces  of  the  listen- 
ing girls,  and  had  seen  reflected  on  them 
surprise,  uncertainty,  and  at  last  flushes  of 
indignation.  They  had  come  for  a  piece  of 
bread,  and  had  been  given  a  stone. 

Nothing  of  this  kind  was  to  be  seen  in 
Roman  churches.  The  priests  officiated  with 
reverence  at  the  altars,  assisted  by  their  little 
acolytes,  while  the  role  of  the  deacon  and  the 
sub-deacons  and  the  choir  was  carried  out  by 
the  congregation  itself.  Seated  on  chairs, 
with  prayer-books  in  their  hands,  the  people 
followed  the  service,  gave  the  responses,  and 
sang  the  prayers.  Sermons  were  preached 
by  gifted  and  eloquent  preachers,  usually  in 
the  evening,  quite  apart  from  any  service, 
and  these  sermons  always  drew  large  and 
eager  crowds  of  listeners. 

In  Russia,    Irene  had  gained  the  impres- 


THE  EMIGRANT  57 

sion  that  the  Catholic  Church  was  nothing 
so  much  as  dry  and  scholastic,  stifling  all 
individual  thought,  and  destroying  all  culture. 
In  Rome,  this  erroneous  idea  was  soon  dissi- 
pated, and  she  realized  that  Catholicism  had, 
on  the  contrary,  through  all  the  centuries  of 
its  existence,  faithfully  served  the  cause  of 
progress.  The  Roman  Popes  had  all  been 
connoisseurs  of  art.  They  had  surrounded 
themselves  with  great  painters  and  sculptors, 
had  given  them  orders,  and  had  encouraged 
them  in  every  possible  way.  They  had  col- 
lected and  religiously  preserved  old  books 
and  manuscripts,  had  organized  extensive 
excavations  and  researches,  and  had  de- 
corated the  halls  of  the  Vatican  and  the 
Lateran  with  the  antique  statues  they  had 
discovered. 

Catholic  schools  and  colleges  had  educated 
numbers  of  highly  talented  people.  Even 
that  famous  negator  of  Christianity,  Renan, 
was  also  a  pupil  of  one  of  these  institutions. 
The  Catholic  system  of  education  does  not 
stifle  the  intelligence — on  the  contrary,  it  gives 
freedom  and  encouragement  to  the  youthful 


58  THE  EMIGRANT 

imagination.  Until  now,  in  spite  of  every 
kind  of  persecution,  monks  and  nuns  are 
looked  upon  in  Western  Europe  as  the  best 
and  most  capable  educators  of  the  young. 
They  put  their  whole  souls  into  their  work, 
and  receive  in  return  the  love  and  respect  of 
their  pupils. 

Irene  thought  of  her  own  spiritual  isolation, 
her  loneliness  and  despair,  during  the  old 
days  at  home  in  Petrograd.  She  had  had 
nowhere  to  go,  no  one  to  whom  to  apply  for 
comfort  and  advice,  and  each  and  everyone 
of  her  acquaintances  had  been  as  lonely  and 
spiritually  friendless  as  herself.  In  Russia, 
she  had  considered  the  accepted  cold  rela- 
tions between  the  faithful  and  their  spiritual 
fathers  as  perfectly  natural ;  now,  she  had 
seen  and  appreciated  the  value  of  very 
different  conditions. 

Pere  Etienne  was  an  old  man,  and  suffered 
severely  from  asthma,  so  that  to  reach  Irene's 
room  on  the  second  floor  was  no  small  matter, 
and  left  him  out  of  breath  for  some  time  after 
his  arrival  there.  In  spite  of  this,  however, 
he  considered  it  his  duty  to  go  and  see  her 


THE  EMIGRANT  59 

every  day,  to  comfort  her,  to  dissipate  her 
doubts,  and  to  renew  her  courage.  It  was 
her  soul  that  was  precious  to  him,  and  he 
exerted  all  his  powers  to  save  this  soul,  and 
to  lead  it  into  the  right  channel. 

All  this  astonished  Irene.  She  had  seen 
in  her  father's  house  how  learned  men, 
almost  all,  as  a  rule  ended  by  being  Atheists 
and  by  regarding  all  religions  as  childish 
sentimentalities. 

How  could  these  Catholic  priests  with 
their  extensive  education  and  intellectuality 
believe  in  naive  Christian  legends  ?  She  had 
imagined  that  the  Catholic  Church  had  long 
ago  abandoned  these  legends,  but  that  having 
in  its  cleverness  realized  what  centuries  are 
needed  for  the  transforming  of  an  old  religion 
into  a  new  one,  had  allowed  them  to  remain 
unrefuted,  and  to  continue  answering,  as  they 
did  most  satisfactorily,  the  spiritual  necessities 
of  millions  of  people.  There  are,  of  course, 
naturally  virtuous  souls  who  will  always 
remain  honest  and  true,  and  will  always  hate 
sin,  to  whatever  religious  opinions  or  nega- 
tions they  may  adhere.  But  are  there  many 


60  THE  EMIGRANT 

such  ?  The  majority  of  the  human  race  is 
still  so  uncultured  that  religion  is  the  only 
means  of  keeping  them  more  or  less  on  the 
right  path — religion,  the  fear  of  hell,  and  the 
hope  of  heaven !  And  so,  thought  Irene, 
the  Catholic  Church  had  decided,  for  the 
time  being,  to  pretend  to  believe  everything  ; 
and,  for  the  happiness  of  the  people,  for  the 
sake  of  law  and  order  and  culture,  to  resign 
not  a  single  legend,  nor  a  single  dogma. 
And  Irene,  with  all  her  heart,  justified  and 
applauded  this  magnificent  deception  ! 

She  had  a  great  wish  to  see  the  Pope, 
and  one  day  mentioned  this  desire  to  Pere 
Etienne.  To  her  astonishment,  however, 
he  answered  coldly  that  this  would  be  too 
great  an  honour  for  her,  and  that  he  was  not 
yet  sufficiently  convinced  of  the  sincerity  of 
her  faith  to  consider  such  an  honour  justifiable. 

"  But,"  murmured  Irene  timidly,  "  I  am 
surely  not  asking  for  anything  so  extra- 
ordinary ?  His  Holiness  receives  hundreds 
of  Englishwomen  and  Americans  every  week." 

"  Yes  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man  indignantly, 
"and  this  is  indeed  a  great  abuse.  These 


THE  EMIGRANT  61 

foreigners  manage  to  get  received,  through 
sheer  curiosity,  and  in  order  to  be  able  to 
say  to  their  friends  at  home  :  '  We  have  been 
to  Rome,  and  we  have  seen  both  the  Pope 
and  an  aristocratic  Italian  fox-hunt.  Both 
were  very  interesting.'  Don't  you  see  that 
for  us — for  true  believers — this  is  an  insuf- 
ferable insult  ?" 

Irene  felt  confused  and  embarrassed. 
When,  however,  a  short  time  later  some 
friends  offered  her  a  ticket  for  one  of  the 
great  papal  functions,  she  could  not  resist 
the  temptation,  and,  saying  nothing  to  Pere 
Etienne,  accepted,  and  decided  to  go  to  the 
Vatican. 


IV 

EXCITED  anticipation  kept  Irene  awake  during 
the  whole  night  previous  to  the  great  occa- 
sion. She  rose  with  the  dawn,  and  laid 
ready  her  black  dress  and  black  lace  veil, 
the  traditional  costume  of  all  pilgrims  received 
by  the  Pope. 

The  ceremony  was  to  take  place  at  eleven 
o'clock,  but  at  ten  Irene  drove  up  to  the 
Vatican,  hoping  to  be  one  of  the  first  to 
arrive.  Alas !  an  extended  line  of  carriages 
had  already  long  been  blocking  the  way  to 
the  Portone  di  Bronzo,  and,  advancing  slowly 
one  by  one,  setting  down  ladies  in  black  lace 
and  gentlemen  in  dress  clothes.  Like  Irene, 
they  had  all  counted  on  arriving  first,  and  all 
contemplated,  with  undisguised  astonishment, 
the  dense  crowd  slowly  making  its  way  up 
the  stairs.  The  predominating  impression 
among  this  crowd  was  far  less  one  of  religious 

62 


THE  EMIGRANT  63 

emotion  than  of  excited  curiosity.  There 
were  many  Americans  and  Germans,  who 
had  come  to  see  a  rare  sight,  in  order  to 
boast  about  it  later  on  in  their  own  countries. 
The  eyes  of  these  tourists  sparkled  with 
delight  as  they  gazed  at  the  papal  guards, 
who,  in  their  mediaeval  costumes  and  their 
peculiar  hats,  looked  as  if  they  had  just 
stepped  out  of  pictures,  as  indeed  did  also 
the  papal  lackeys,  in  cherry-coloured  brocade, 
with  silk  stockings  and  buckled  shoes. 

Irene  loved  the  Vatican.  This  mediaeval 
fortress,  with  its  numberless  houses,  towers, 
courtyards,  cemeteries,  and  gardens  appealed 
strongly  to  her  imagination.  She  loved, 
perhaps  most  of  all,  the  splendid  halls  with 
their  frescoes  and  their  beautiful  antique 
statues.  This,  she  thought,  was  true  luxury, 
in  comparison  with  which  the  luxury  of 
modern  palaces,  with  their  commonplace 
silk-panelled  walls  and  their  carpets  and 
pictures,  grew  pale  and  seemed  almost 
vulgar.  In  the  magnificent  halls  of  the 
Vatican  the  walls  and  ceilings  were  covered 
with  frescoes  by  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo, 


64  THE  EMIGRANT 

and  the  ornaments  consisted  of  antique  por- 
phyry sarcophagi,  ancient  mosaics,  such  as 
have  never  been  equalled  in  more  modern 
times,  and  colossal  marble  vases  and  fonts, 
excavated  from  ancient  baths  and  shrines. 
Modern  art  has  been  able  to  add  nothing  to 
all  these  priceless  treasures. 

And  now  Irene  was  gazing  with  rapture 
at  the  frescoed  walls  of  the  immense  Sala 
Clementina,  into  which,  little  by  little,  the 
extraordinarily  mixed  assemblage,  whose  like 
one  can  hardly  meet  anywhere,  was  making 
its  way.  There  were  foreigners  shivering 
in  furs ;  aristocratic  Roman  ladies  in  elegant 
black  dresses,  long  white  gloves,  and  family 
pearls  ;  prelates  ;  cardinals  ;  nuns  in  white 
starched  headdresses;  Capucins  in  sandals,  and 
with  ropes  round  their  waists  ;  little  girls  in 
white  dresses  and  lace  veils,  with  curls  framing 
their  flushed,  excited  faces ;  officers  of  the 
papal  guard ;  dominicans  in  white  cloth 
cassocks ;  attaches  of  the  various  foreign 
embassies  in  gold  embroidered  uniforms — 
all  this  formed  one  heterogeneous,  palpitating 
mass  of  humanity.  The  variety  of  the  crowd 


THE  EMIGRANT  65 

pleased  and  interested  Irene.  It  struck  her 
that  all  this  was  just  as  it  should  be  in 
the  Palace  of  the  Roman  Pontiff,  the  only 
sovereign  who  acknowledged  neither  rank 
nor  position  nor  class  distinctions,  and  who 
did  not  surround  himself  with  a  Chinese  wall, 
guarded  by  a  handful  of  privileged  people, 
in  no  way  more  deserving  than  their  fellows. 
"It  is  in  most  countries  these  privileged 
•classes,"  thought  Irene,  "who  by  energetically 
pushing  to  a  safe  distance  from  the  precints 
of  the  throne  all  who  really  work  for  the 
good  of  their  country,  always  manage  arti- 
ficially to  create  enemies  for  their  King." 
The  Pope  believed  in  a  very  different  policy. 
He  was  accessible  to  everybody,  without 
distinction  of  nationality,  faith,  or  social 
position,  and  he  was  ready  to  receive  and 
to  bless  everyone  alike.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it 
may  be  owing  to  this  wise  policy  that  no 
attempt  has  ever  been  made  on  his  life,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Vatican  employs 
neither  spies  nor  secret  guards.  Such  a 
Court,  thought  Irene,  should  have  existed 
under  Constantine  the  Great  or  Louis  IX. 

5 


66  THE  EMIGRANT 

The  ceremony  of  presenting  consecrated 
candles  to  the  Pope  (dei  ceri  benedetti]  was 
to  take  place  in  the  neighbouring  Sala  del 
Trono.  At  one  end  of  this  lofty,  narrow, 
frescoed  hall  stood,  under  a  baldaquin,  the 
golden  throne  of  the  Pope ;  at  the  other  end, 
a  great  crucifix  supported  by  an  angel.  On 
either  side  of  the  central  passage,  kept  clear 
by  the  Swiss  guards,  were  long  benches,  on 
which  were  already  seated  various  pilgrims, 
all  trying  to  get  as  near  as  possible  to  the 
throne.  The  best  places  had  already  long 
been  taken  by  clergy  of  all  nationalities,  with 
enormous  opera-glasses  and  firm  intentions 
to  miss  not  the  smallest  detail  of  the  interest- 
ing spectacle.  Subdued  excitement  reigned 
supreme  in  the  half-darkened  hall,  with  its 
drawn  red  blinds  and  its  sparse,  electric  lights. 
There  was  a  hushed  murmur  of  low-toned 
conversation — everyone  spoke  in  a  whisper, 
except,  of  course,  the  Americans,  who  ex- 
changed silly  little  remarks  and  impressions 
in  unceremonious,  strident  tones.  A  French- 
man, with  a  small  pointed  beard  was,  in  a 
loud  voice,  relating  to  someone  something 


THE  EMIGRANT  67 

about  an  inn  in  Naples,  where  one  could 
get  excellent  wine  and  macaroni.  With 
the  impudence  of  a  dull-minded  Atheist, 
he  smacked  his  lips  over  various  details, 
keenly  enjoying  the  paradox  contained  in 
the  mere  fact  of  discussing  such  things  at 
the  Vatican. 

Here  and  there  in  the  crowd,  however, 
could  also  be  seen  the  rapturous  faces  of 
youthful  priests  and  young  girls.  Full  of 
religious  exaltation,  trembling  with  emotion, 
they  kept  their  shining  eyes  fixed  on  the 
door  before  which  stood  the  papal  guards. 

At  last  there  was  a  wave  of  movement. 
The  crowd  rose,  made  as  though  it  would 
fall  on  its  knees,  but  thought  better  of  the 
intention,  and  remained  standing.  Sur- 
rounded by  his  Court,  His  Holiness,  in  white 
raiment  and  a  little  white  cap,  passed  to  the 
throne,  and,  throwing  a  quick  glance  over 
the  assemblage,  took  his  place. 

Along  the  central  passage,  between  the 
benches,  a  procession  of  priests  advanced, 
two  and  two,  holding  in  their  hands  long 
painted  tapers,  covered  with  funny  little 


68  THE  EMIGRANT 

fringed  extinguishers.  They  approached  the 
throne,  handed  the  tapers  to  attendants,  fell 
on  their  knees,  and  kissed  the  Pope's  ring. 
On  the  beautiful  face  of  the  Pontiff  shone  a 
radiant  smile.  He  said  a  few  words  to  each 
one,  sometimes  whispered  in  their  ears,  and 
often  laughed.  This  was  not  the  face  of  a 
mighty  sovereign,  but  only  that  of  a  good, 
kind  old  man,  who  had  long  ago  learnt  that 
all  sorrows,  all  dreams,  all  hopes,  are  soon 
over,  and  that  life  is  short,  and  does  not 
contain  anything  specially  good  or  attractive. 
He  was  deeply  sorry  for  all  those  expectant 
pilgrims,  exciting  themselves  about  nothing 
at  all,  awaiting  Heaven  knows  what,  and 
needlessly  tiring  themselves  out ;  and  all  he 
could  do  was  to  help  them  with  a  kind  word, 
a  warm  glance,  and  with  the  love  that  illu- 
mined his  beautiful  features.  It  seemed  to 
Irene  that,  for  the  first  time  in  centuries,  a 
truly  Christian  pastor  reigned  in  Rome,  and 
one  who  in  spirit  resembled  the  first  Christian 
apostles,  the  builders  of  the  Church.  What  a 
striking  contrast  between  this  Pope  and  his 
surrounding  Court !  They,  too,  were  all  smil- 


THE  EMIGRANT  69 

ing  at  the  pilgrims;  but  what  hypocrisy,  what 
falseness  and  flattery,  breathed  in  those 
smiles  !  Their  crafty  faces  were  cold  and  in- 
different. For  them,  this  ceremony  was  only 
one  of  the  countless  comedies  in  which  they 
had  constantly  to  play  parts.  Two  of  these 
papal  courtiers,  both  still  young  and  hand- 
some, were  obviously  posing  before  the  aris- 
tocratic Roman  ladies,  among  whom  they 
probably  had  admiring  friends. 

The  ceremony  lasted  a  long  time.  The 
tapers,  in  the  hands  of  the  priests,  moved 
along  in  endless  procession.  Everyone  was 
tired  and  hot,  all  faces  were  flushed.  The 
courtiers  around  the  throne  left  off  smiling, 
and  made  no  attempt  to  hide  their  fatigue. 
Only  the  Pope  alone  smiled  as  warmly  and 
caressingly  as  before  upon  each  man  who 
knelt  before  him.  For  him,  this  was  no  cere- 
mony, this  was  a  human  service,  which  he 
rendered  joyfully. 

At  last,  the  final  tapers  were  presented. 
His  Holiness  rose,  blessed  the  bowing  crowd, 
and  left  the  hall.  There  was  a  general  rush 
for  the  door.  Close  to  Irene,  a  young  French 


70  THE  EMIGRANT 

girl  was  heatedly  disputing  some  point  with 
her  mother. 

"  Mais,  il  t'a  donne"  sa  benediction,  ma 
ch&re,"  persuaded  the  mother.  "He  has 
blessed  us  all.  What  more  do  you  want  ?" 

But  the  girl  was  not  consoled,  and  only 
looked  sadly  at  the  door,  behind  which  the 
Pope  had  disappeared. 

Irene  understood  :  she,  too,  felt  sad  at  the 
thought  that  she  would  never  again  see  that 
beautiful  Christian  smile. 


V 

THE  same  evening,  Irene  announced  to 
Pere  Etienne  that  all  her  doubts  were  at  an 
end,  and  that  she  had  decided  to  take  the 
Veil.  She  would  now  only  ask  him  to  find 
her  a  suitable  convent. 

"There  are  many  orders  of  nuns  in  Rome," 
answered  the  Father,  reflectively,  "  each  with 
a  particular  aim  and  purpose.  There  are 
sisters  who  nurse  the  sick,  and  others  who 
educate  children.  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
order  most  suited  in  your  case  is  that  of  the 
Sceurs  Mauves.  They  lead  very  secluded 
lives,  pray  a  great  deal,  and  keep  watch,  night 
and  day,  over  the  Holy  Sacrament.  You  can 
see  them  every  day  at  Vespers  in  their 
Church  of  Santa  Petronilla  in  the  Via  Gallia. 

Trembling  with  emotion,  Irene  turned  her 
steps  towards  this  convent,  half  afraid  of  her 


72  THE  EMIGRANT 

own  first  impression.  When  she  entered,  the 
church  was  almost  empty.  A  few  stray  old 
men  and  old  women  were  dreaming  on  chairs, 
waiting  for  the  service.  Like  most  modern 
Roman  churches,  Santa  Petronilla  was  ablaze 
with  gilding  and  profusely  decorated  with 
pictures.  On  either  side,  up  above,  were  gal- 
leries of  quite  theatrical  appearance,  painted 
mauve  and  white,  the  colours  of  the  convent. 
A  transparent,  high,  carved  partition  divided 
the  church  into  two  parts  :  the  one  nearest 
the  entrance  for  the  public,  the  other,  nearest 
the  altar,  for  the  nuns.  At  present,  all  was 
dark  and  empty,  only  one  feeble  taper  was 
burning  on  the  altar. 

Irene  took  a  seat  in  the  first  row,  quite 
close  to  the  partition,  and  prepared  to 
contemplate  her  future  surroundings.  It 
was  a  long  time  before  the  silence  was 
broken  by  the  slow,  dull  sound  of  the  church 
bells.  The  altar  was  suddenly  brightly  illu- 
minated, and  a  procession  of  nuns  appeared 
through  the  door.  They  entered  in  couples, 
knelt  for  a  moment,  one  couple  at  a  time, 
before  the  altar,  and  then  slowly,  gracefully. 


THE  EMIGRANT  73 

with  soundless  footsteps,  made  their  way  to 
their  places.  They  were  dressed  in  white 
robes  with  long  trains,  and  wide  mauve 
borders.  White  veils  hid  their  faces,  and  fell 
at  the  back  in  graceful  folds  over  their  trains. 
These  veils  were  so  thick,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  distinguish  the  ages  of  their  wearers. 
With  soft  white  hands,  the  nuns  clasped  the 
golden  crosses  on  their  breasts,  as  they  slowly 
sank  into  their  places,  threw  back  their  veils, 
and,  directing  their  gaze  to  the  altar,  remained 
immovable  in  the  most  graceful  of  poses. 
Somewhere  in  the  distance  an  organ  began 
to  play,  and  an  invisible  choir  sang  a  prayer, 
or,  rather,  a  beautiful  Italian  operatic  air. 

Something  long  forgotten  stirred  restlessly 
in  Irene's  heart.  "  But  these  are  my  vestal 
virgins  !"  she  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  emotion 
— those  beloved  vestal  virgins  that  had  always 
so  deeply  appealed  to  her  imagination,  and 
whose  disappearance  she  had  so  often  re- 
gretted. It  seemed  to  her  that  no  reforms 
and  no  amount  of  progress  could  ever  give 
back  to  women  the  high  position  occupied  in 
ancient  Rome  by  the  handmaidens  of  the 


74  THE  EMIGRANT 

goddess  Vesta.  Everyone  had  bowed  before 
them ;  with  a  movement  of  the  hand  they  had 
the  power  to  pardon  prisoners  condemned  to 
death  ;  they  were  present  at  all  ceremonies, 
games,  and  performances,  and  formed  the 
principal  ornament  of  the  Courts  of  the 
Roman  Emperors.  And  here,  suddenly,  Irene 
had  found  them  again,  less  mighty  and  less 
dazzling,  perhaps,  but  more  mysterious  in- 
stead, and  more  poetical. 

The  service  continued,  and  the  church 
gradually  filled  with  people  :  elegant  ladies, 
dirty  workmen,  little  old  men  and  little  old 
women,  even  small  children  brought  there 
by  religious  nurses.  They  all  joined  in  the 
hymns,  and  sang  with  the  nuns.  There  was 
something  strange  and  touching  in  the  ming- 
ling of  all  those  hoarse,  old,  untrained  voices 
with  the  soft  music  of  the  choir,  descending, 
like  the  song  of  angels,  from  the  mauve  gal- 
lery. Many  of  the  worshippers  were  weeping 
bitterly,  on  their  knees.  From  time  to  time 
the  singing  stopped,  and  one  of  the  nuns, 
opening  a  prayer-book,  read  a  prayer,  in  a 
soft,  melodious  voice.  Irene  watched  her 


THE  EMIGRANT  75 

future  companions  with  great  emotion.  They 
seemed  so  dignified,  so  refined,  so  completely 
comme  ilfaut ;  life  among  them,  indeed,  pro- 
mised to  be  charming.  Nothing  in  their 
habits  and  manners  could  ever  jar  on  her  or 
shock  her.  She  remembered,  with  a  shudder, 
the  Russian  nuns  who  wander  from  village  to 
village,  collecting  money  for  the  building  of 
churches,  lifting  their  dirty  dresses  high,  and 
showing  their  equally  dirty,  red,  rough,  thick 
peasant  legs. 

The  service  came  to  an  end.  Slowly, 
gracefully,  the  white  dignified  figures  of  the 
Sceurs  Mauves  floated  away  and  disappeared. 
In  their  places  appeared  several  fat,  active 
little  nuns,  in  short  black  robes,  with  enor- 
mous mauve  bows  and  little  white  veils. 
They  extinguished  the  candles,  running  from 
one  candlestick  to  another,  never  forgetting 
their  reverend  genuflexion  when  passing  the 
altar. 

"  Serving-women,"  thought  Irene,  and 
the  thought  pleased  her  that  she  would  not, 
even  in  the  convent,  cease  to  be  a  lady 
accustomed  to  the  services  of  a  maid.  For  a 


76  THE  EMIGRANT 

moment  she  was  ashamed  of  the  thought, 
but  immediately  justified  herself :  "  Of  course 
all  idea  of  dirty  work  is  impossible  in  those 
long  snowy  robes,  those  white  slippers,  and 
floating,  shimmering  veils !" 

It  was  a  still,  warm  evening,  and  the  stars 
were  beginning  to  show  themselves  in  the 
dark  blue  sky  when  Irene  left  the  church. 
There  was  peace  in  her  soul  as  she  breathed 
in  the  balmy  Southern  air.  "  Thank  God  !" 
she  said  to  herself.  "At  last  I  have  found 
my  vocation.  What  matter  if  I  do  not  suffi- 
ciently believe?  The  principal  thing  is  to 
sing,  to  read  prayers,  and  to  touch  the  hearts 
of  all  those  unhappy,  suffering  people,  who 
come  to  pray  with  the  nuns,  believing  in  their 
purity  and  saintliness." 

Almost  all  unmarried  women  of  a  certain 
age  suffer  secret  torments  from  the  fact  that 
they  have  actually  no  place  in  society.  Irene 
was  no  exception  to  this  rule,  and  she  was 
happy  at  the  thought  that  now,  at  last,  she 
might  be  of  some  use  in  the  service  of 
humanity.  To  have  a  special  uniform — an 
idea  always  dear  to  the  Russian  heart — was 


THE  EMIGRANT  77 

also  a  great  attraction.  In  imagination  she 
tried  on  the  picturesque  dress  of  those  modern 
vestal  virgins,  making  up  her  mind  to  be 
graceful,  to  float  about  like  a  white  spirit, 
to  sing,  and  to  read  prayers  melodiously. 

From  that  day,  Irene  never  missed  a 
single  evening  service  in  the  Via  Gallia. 
The  nuns  were  inaccessible  to  outsiders,  and 
no  stranger  was  ever  admitted  to  the  con- 
vent— an  additional  fact  to  play  upon  Irene's 
fancy.  The  convent  stood  on  a  hill.  Luxu- 
rious palms  and  fragrant  Roman  pines  leaned 
over  its  high  garden  walls,  and  Irene  saw, 
in  imagination,  the  small,  interior  courtyard, 
with  its  covered  verandah,  its  slim,  carved 
columns,  its  murmuring  fountain,  its  Southern 
foliage  and  flowers.  She  pictured  to  herself 
the  early  morning ;  she  heard  the  measured 
tones  of  the  melodious  convent  bells  calling 
the  sisters  to  prayer ;  then  she  thought  of 
the  evening,  of  a  golden  Roman  sunset,  a 
purple  sky,  faint,  glistening  stars,  and  the 
Ave  Maria.  .  .  . 

How  beautiful,  how  poetical,  seemed  her 
future  life,  with  its  prayers,  its  meditations, 


78  THE  EMIGRANT 

its  rapturous  exaltation,  its  Gospel-readings, 
its  soft  singing,  its  incense !  An  enchanted 
existence  in  a  Southern  clime,  a  sweet, 
mystical  dream,  and  then — death,  followed 
by  a  probable  awakening  to  some  new  and 
glorious  life  ! 

The  news  of  Irene's  decision  created  a 
great  sensation  in  her  pension.  Although 
nothing  was  definitely  settled  between  her- 
self and  Pere  Etienne,  everyone  else  knew 
which  order  she  had  chosen,  and  on  which 
day  she  was  to  be  received.  Some  even 
went  so  far  as  to  name  the  dressmaker  who 
was  making  her  convent  robes.  They  all 
constantly  stared  at  Irene,  and  pointed  her 
out  to  their  visitors. 

One  afternoon,  she  happened  to  accom- 
pany Pere  Etienne  to  the  hall-door,  at  the 
hour  when  the  complicated  business  of  after- 
noon tea  was  in  progress.  Small  bamboo 
tables  were  scattered  about  between  Chinese 
screens  and  immense  palms,  and  at  one  of 
these  tables,  some  distance  away  from  the 
door,  sat  a  goodnatured,  pleasant  little 
Russian  old  lady,  giving  tea  to  a  fellow- 


THE  EMIGRANT  79 

countryman,  a  tall,  handsome,  energetic, 
young-looking  Russian  of  about  forty,  with, 
an  occasional  grey  thread  in  his  thick,  dark 
hair.  The  old  lady,  with  a  whispered  remark, 
pointed  Irene  out  to  her  visitor.  He  looked 
round  with  some  curiosity,  and  then  muttered, 
with  a  frown  : 

"  What  is  this  stupid,  new  fashion  ?  Our 
women  seem  unable  to  look  at  a  Roman 
priest  without  renouncing  Orthodoxy  !" 


VI 

A  MAGNIFICENT  January  moonlight  night  had 
wrapped  the  world  in  its  silence.  Rome  was 
nestling  in  the  warm,  pale  blue  air ;  there  were 
fantastic  shapes  and  shadows  everywhere ; 
the  magic  of  the  darkness  had  wiped  out  all 
contrasts  between  ruins  and  modern  build- 
ings, and  everything  alike,  churches,  houses, 
streets,  seemed  unreal  and  enchanted. 

Most  beautiful  of  all,  however,  was  the 
Colosseum,  towards  which  Irene  turned  her 
steps  that  night.  Like  all  foreigners,  she 
had  considered  it  her  duty  to  see  this  famous 
ruin  by  moonlight,  and  had  on  a  previous 
occasion  visited  it  for  this  purpose,  in  com- 
pany with  several  of  the  tourists  staying  at 
her  pension.  Their  commonplace  expres- 
sions of  delight,  however,  had  entirely  spoilt 
the  impression  for  her,  and  this  time,  tempted 

80 


THE  EMIGRANT  81 

by  the  clear  moonlight,  she  decided  to  go 
alone,  and  enjoy  the  unique  beauty  of  the 
Colosseum  in  solitude. 

Fate  was  kind  to  Irene.  The  enormous 
circus  was  entirely  deserted  but  for  the 
almost  invisible  shadows  of  a  few  distant 
tourists,  and  the  outline  of  a  tall  man  stand- 
ing at  the  entrance,  wrapt  in  admiration  of  the 
grandiose  spectacle.  Irene  had  just  seated 
herself  on  a  stone,  when  suddenly  out  of  the 
shadows,  as  though  from  nowhere,  sprang 
the  figure  of  an  old  guide,  declaiming  patheti- 
cally, and  addressing  himself  to  Irene  : 

"  Voici  ce  fameux  Colisee,  ce  cirque 
epatant,  ou  les  malheureux  chretiens " 

Irene  was  so  annoyed,  that  she  cried  out, 
and  even  shook  her  umbrella  at  him.  The 
guide  cut  short  his  eloquence,  and  turned 
away  grumbling.  Irene  suddenly  felt 
ashamed.  She  followed  the  poor  old  man 
and  offered  him  money,  but  the  proud  Roman 
refused.  Cursing  Irene  and  all  her  relations 
and  friends,  and  expressing  the  wish  that  her 
first-born  might  be  burnt  in  hell,  he  withdrew 
with  dignity. 

6 


82  THE  EMIGRANT 

Irene  turned  round.  The  tall  Russian  had 
been  watching  the  scene  with  interest.  They 
looked  at  each  other,  and  both  involuntarily 
laughed. 

"What  a  good  thing  you  drove  away  that 
old  parrot !"  said  the  stranger.  "  These 
guides  simply  spoil  Italy  for  foreigners.  I 
am  sure  tourists  would  willingly  pay  a  tax  for 
their  benefit,  only  to  be  rid  of  them,  and  to 
be  allowed  to  admire  Italy's  treasures  in 
peace.  I  am  always  positively  wild  with 
rage  when  they  begin  to  declaim,  and  to 
offer  me  elementary  information  that  we  all 
acquired  years  ago  at  school !"< 

Irene  listened  sympathetically, and  suddenly 
realized  with  astonishment  that  the  stranger 
was  addressing  her  in  Russian.  How  could 
he  have  found  out  that  she  was  Russian  I 

The  speaker  noticed  her  surprise,  and 
smiled. 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  your 
pension"  he  explained,  "  I  went  there  to  see 
Anna  Sergeievna  Boutourina." 

"Oh!  Do  you  know  Anna  Sergeievna? 
Isn't  she  a  charming  old  lady  ?" 


THE  EMIGRANT  83 

"  Very  charming.  I  have  known  her  since 
my  childhood  ;  I  used  to  go  and  stay  with 
her  as  a  little  boy.  Allow  me  to  introduce 
myself:  Sergei  Gzhatski,  Marshal  of  the 
Nobility  in  the  province  of  S ." 

They  began  to  speak  of  S ,  and  dis- 
covered mutual  acquaintances.  But  their 
conversation  soon  came  to  a  stop.  The 
magic  beauty  of  the  night  threw  its  enchant- 
ment over  them.  They  mounted  the  steps 
of  the  amphitheatre,  sat  down  on  the  steps, 
and  remained  silent,  in  admiration  of  the 
glorious  scene.  Pale  blue  clouds  were  float- 
ing above  them,  from  time  to  time  veiling 
the  moon.  The  high  walls,  with  their  im- 
mense openings,  stood  out  like  enormous  lace 
patterns  against  the  clear  sky.  Through  the 
gaps  in  the  blocks  of  stone  peeped  cypresses 
and  Roman  pines ;  high  on  the  third  floor, 
alternately  appearing  and  disappearing,  shone 
a  moving  light,  a  torch,  in  the  hands  of  a 
guide,  leading  a  crowd  of  English  tourists 
through  all  the  corridors  and  tiers  of  the 
Colosseum.  Irene  gazed  fixedly  at  this  waver- 
ing light,  and  suddenly  her  thoughts  wan- 


84  THE  EMIGRANT 

dered   back   to   ancient  times,  to  the  early 
years  of  Christianity. 

The  warm  moon  shone  in  those  days,  just 
as  now,  she  dreamed  ;  the  little  clouds 
floated  across  the  same  sky ;  the  cypresses 
looked  in  at  the  same  windows.  The  torches 
gleamed  like  this  one,  only  there  were  many 
of  them,  and  they  moved  not  through  the  tiers 
and  balconies,  but  in  the  arena,  rising  and  fall- 
ing, in  the  hands  of  Romans  clad  in  togas  and 
tunics.  This  afternoon  the  games  beloved  of 
Romans  had  taken  place,  and  many  Christians 
had  been  thrown  to  the  wild  beasts.  The 
festive  crowd  of  onlookers  had  left  the  circus, 
chattering  gaily  and  animatedly,  and  hurried 
homeward  to  merry  suppers.  The  wild  beasts, 
having  eaten  sumptuously,  are  now  sleeping  in 
their  cages.  The  night  has  fallen  peacefully 
on  Rome,  and  with  the  darkness  there  has 
appeared  in  the  arena  a  silent  assemblage ; 
the  friends  and  relations  of  to-day's  martyred 
Christians.  For  large  sums  of  money  they  have 
bought,  from  the  keepers  of  the  Colosseum, 
the  right  to  take  away  the  bodies  of  the  vie  • 


THE  EMIGRANT  85 

tims.  Stifling  their  sobs,  silently,  like  shadows 
of  mourning,  they  pass  from  one  corpse  to 
another,  bending  down,  searching  by  the  light 
of  their  torches  for  the  remains  of  some  dear 
one.  Having  found  what  they  sought,  they 
fall,  with  a  dull  cry,  to  the  ground,  and 
gaze  with  horror  at  the  stiffened  features. 
There,  beside  a  torn  white  tunic,  some  long 
black  tresses,  and  two  soft,  girlish  hands,  sits 
an  old  woman,  richly  but  tastelessly  dressed, 
and  with  blunt,  plebeian  features.  She  is 
swaying  hopelessly  from  side  to  side,  and, 
in  a  pitiful,  wailing  voice,  is  telling  her  sorrow 
to  an  old  man,  who  listens  sympathetically. 

"  She  was  our  only  one  !  Our  one  beloved 
treasure !  Many  children  were  born  to  us 
before  her,  but  it  was  not  Jupiter's  will  that 
they  should  grow  up.  They  were  all  poor 
little  mites,  born  thin  and  puny,  and  with 
big  heads.  They  lived  for  about  two  years, 
tottered  round  the  yard  on  their  poor,  weak 
little  legs,  and  then  died.  Lydia  was  the 
last.  At  her  birth  she  was  so  thin  and  fragile 
that  we  never  hoped  she  would  grow  up. 
Besides,  I  was  already  turned  forty,  and  my 


86     .  THE  EMIGRANT 

old  man  was  getting  on  for  sixty ;  what  sort 
of  children  can  one  expect  to  have  at  that 
time  of  life !  But,  somehow,  the  gods  took 
pity  on  our  lonely  old  age.  Lydia  began  to 
improve  and  get  strong.  Ye  gods  !  How 
we  loved  her  and  caressed  her  and  spoiled 
her !  Her  father  simply  worshipped  her, 
and  strictly  forbade  me  ever  to  punish  her. 
For  that  matter  there  was  never  any 
reason  to  punish  her,  she  was  quiet  and 
thoughtful,  and  always  alone  in  a  corner, 
away  from  other  children.  Even  when 
nearly  grown  up,  she  never  wanted  girl 
friends.  '  I  want  no  one  but  you,'  she  would 
say,  embracing  us  lovingly.  She  always  sat 
at  home,  and  could  not  be  induced  to  join  in 
any  gaieties.  She  had  only  one  passion — 
the  Vestal  Virgins.  Often  and  often  she  went 
to  gaze  at  them  and  admire  them,  weeping 
bitter  tears  because  she  was  not  one  of  them, 
and  carrying  flowers  to  the  shrine  of  the  god- 
dess Vesta.  We  greatly  feared,  my  old  man 
and  I,  that  she  would  never  consent  to  marry. 
We  longed  to  see  our  grand-children,  and 
besides,  we  wanted  an  heir  to  carry  on  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  87 

business.  My  old  man  is  the  best  jeweller 
in  Rome.  All  the  great  people  give  us 
orders,  and  our  things  are  highly  valued. 
My  husband  found  a  suitable  son-in-law,  also 
in  the  jeweller's  business — but  we  did  not 
dare  to  tell  Lydia.  She  was  so  proud,  and 
would  never  look  at  men.  And  oh  !  how 
beautiful  she  was  !  Pale,  like  marble,  with 
her  thin  little  face,  her  large,  grey  eyes,  and 
her  heavy  dark  tresses.  All  the  young  men 
were  in  love  with  her,  but  she  would 
have  nothing  to  say  to  any  of  them.  Then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  those  accursed  Jews  appeared. 
They  used  to  live  quietly  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Tiber,  until  one  day  when  they  all 
seemed  to  have  become  possessed.  Over 
they  came,  swarms  of  them,  telling  some 
story  of  a  new  God  of  theirs,  born  somewhere 
in  Palestine,  and  asking  everyone  to  believe 
in  Him.  Dirty,  miserable  wretches,  disgust- 
ing in  their  filthy  rags,  gesticulating,  excited 
really  quite  absurd.  Beggars,  you  know,  but 
with  the  pretensions  of  E  mperors.  Of  course, 
old  people  only  laughed  at  them.  As  if  any- 
one would  dream  of  changing  his  religion  in 


88  THE  EMIGRANT 

his  old  age !  But  the  young  people  began  to- 
be  interested,  and  to  go  to  the  Jews'  meetings. 
Those  miserable  wretches  spoke  so  passion- 
ately— just  as  if  they  really  had  seen  a  great 
new  God  !  Lydia  went  once  too,  and  came 
home  all  of  a  tremble  with  emotion.  At  first  we 
were  pleased,  because  her  passion  for  the 
Vestal  Virgins  seemed  to  have  cooled.  But 
our  joy  was  short-lived.  She  began  to  dis- 
appear for  days  and  nights  at  a  time,  always 
praying  with  her  Jews,  and  calling  herself  a 
Christian.  My  old  man  and  I  grew  alarmed, 
and  then,  suddenly,  began  the  persecution  of 
Christians.  At  first  we,  of  course,  thought 
that  only  those  good-for-nothing  Jews  would 
be  persecuted,  and  we  were  very  pleased, 
because  we  hated  them.  But  the  news 
spread  that  there  was  an  order  to  catch  all 
other  Christians  too.  We  lived  in  terror, 
expecting  trouble  every  day.  We  did  all  we 
could  to  keep  Lydia  at  home,  but  there,  she 
would  not  even  listen  to  us.  '  We  pray  to- 
gether,' was  all  she  said,  'and  we  will  die  to- 
gether.' One  day,  a  month  ago,  she  went  to 
a  secret  meeting,  and  never  returned.  We 


THE  EMIGRANT  89 

learned  that  she  was  in  prison,  we  bribed  the 
gaolers,  and  managed  to  see  her.  She  was 
in  a  feverish  state  of  rapture  and  exultation. 
*  Be  happy  for  me/  she  said ;  '  I  shall  see 
Christ,  and  be  with  Him  for  ever.'  With 
bitter  tears,  we  implored  her  to  renounce 
this  madness.  Her  old  father  and  I,  we  fell 
on  our  knees  before  her — nothing  helped  \ 
It  was  not  only  once  that  we  went  to  her, 
nor  twice,  nor  three  times.  What  a  fortune 
we  spent  on  bribes !  Though  that,  indeed, 
matters  little.  What  do  we  want  with  riches 
now  that  we  have  no  one  to  whom  to  leave 
them  ?  One  day,  about  a  fortnight  ago,  we 
went  to  her.  She  was  pale  and  faint,  and  in 
tears.  She  took  us  into  a  corner,  away  from 
the  other  prisoners,  threw  them  furtive, 
frightened  glances,  and  whispered  :  '  We 
are  condemned  to  death.  They  are  going  to 
throw  us  to  the  wild  beasts  in  the  circus.  It 
is  terrible — oh  !  it  is  terrible  !'  She  was 
shivering  and  sobbing.  '  I  cannot  sleep  at 
night — I  always  see  a  tiger,  falling  on  me  and 
tearing  me  to  pieces.  Save  me !  Save  me  ? 
I  will  agree  to  anything  now  !  But  don't  tell 


90  THE  EMIGRANT 

the  others,  or  they  will  despise  me  and  laugh 
at  me.'  In  wild  haste  we  rushed  off  to  our 
best  client,  the  Senator  Claudius  Massimus. 
All  day  we  sat  in  his  atrium,  waiting  to  be 
received.  At  last,  in  the  evening,  the 
Senator  comes  to  us,  hears  us,  and  answers  : 
4  Very  well,  my  good  old  people,  I  will  do 
what  I  can  for  you.  Let  your  daughter  only 
make  a  sacrifice  to  the  gods,  and  publicly 
curse  her  past  folly.'  Hardly  feeling  our  feet 
under  us  for  joy  and  thankfulness,  we  rushed 
with  our  news  to  Lydia.  But  oh !  misery ! 
misery  !  In  the  meantime  their  chief  priest 
had  been  to  the  prison,  the  wicked,  accursed 
old  villain !  I  don't  know  what  he  told  them, 
but  Lydia  came  out  to  us,  beaming  with 
happiness.  '  I  no  longer  need  anything,'  she 
said,  embracing  us.  '  Thank  you  for  your 
solicitude  on  my  behalf,  but  however  great 
your  love  may  be  for  me,  you  cannot  give  me 
the  joys  that  are  prepared  for  me  in  Heaven.' 
We  implored  her,  besought  her  all  in  vain. 
Lydia  only  laughed,  and  kissed  us.  We  stag- 
gered home,  and  the  same  night  my  old  man 
had  a  paralytic  stroke.  From  that  moment 


THE  EMIGRANT  91 

I  have  not  been  able  to  leave  him.    To-day  we 
have  been  together  in  silence,  without  moving 
from  dawn  till  sunset.    Do  you  know,  do  you 
understand,  you  merciless,  pitiless  daughter, 
all   that  we   have   suffered  ?     Had  you  the 
right  to  buy  for  yourself  eternal  salvation  at 
such  a  price  ?     Oh  !  wicked,  cruel,  beloved 
one !     When  the  sun  had  set,  my  old  man 
gave  me  money,  and  said  :  '  Go  and  bring  me 
all  they  have  left  us  of  Lydia.'     So  I  have 
come,  and  have  found  her  tattered  tunic,  and 
her   scalp    and   hair,  and  her  lovely  hands, 
with  the  bracelets  her  father  put   on  them 
when  she  was  fifteen.     Oh,  ye  gods,  ye  gods  ! 
Is  it  for  this  that  we  have  brought  her  up  and 
watched  over  her,  and  cared  for  her,  that  she 
should  be  a  fairer  sacrifice  for  the  accursed 
Jews  ?     Talk  of  mercy  and  love,  and  then 
take  away  from  anguished  parents  their  only 
joy,  the  light  and  mainstay  of  their  old  age ! 
May  they  be  accursed  and  thrice  accursed, 
these    demented,    perverted   villains,    these 
murderers  of  our  children !"     And   the   old 
woman  fell  forward  with  a  cry,  on  the  tresses 
of  the  hapless  Lydia. 


92  THE  EMIGRANT 

Not  far  away  from  her  sat  a  proud  young- 
beauty,  in  a  luxurious  gold-embroidered  tunic, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  head  of  a  young  hand- 
some Roman.  Large,  slow  teardrops  followed 
each  other  down  her  face,  but  she  did  not 
notice  them  nor  attempt  to  brush  them  away. 
She  only  threw  herself,  at  intervals,  on  the 
bleeding  corpse,  embraced  it  with  her  soft 
arms,  and  passionately  kissed  the  cold  lips 
and  the  golden  moustache. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  What  have  you 
done  ?  My  adored,  cruel  husband !  How 
could  you  leave  me,  forget  my  love,  forget 
our  happiness  together  ?  Were  we  all,  your 
relations,  your  friends,  your  nearest  and 
dearest,  of  so  little  import  to  you,  that  you 
could  abandon  us  for  the  sake  of  a  mad 
dream  ?  How  could  you,  a  clever,  well-bred 
noble  Roman,  fall  under  the  influence  of  low, 
filthy  slaves?  They  are  all  frantic  about  some 
wild  idea,  some  frienzied  vision,  and  you — 
you  could  believe  them,  and  share  their  mad- 
ness ! 

"  Oh  !  What  shall  I  do  with  my  life  with- 
out you  ?  You  took  me,  a  young,  careless. 


THE  EMIGRANT  93 

innocent  child,  you  taught  me  the  happiness 
of  love,  and  now  you  have  pitilessly  aban- 
doned me  !  I  pass  whole  days  and  nights  in 
the  remembrance  of  your  caresses,  I  stretch 
out  my  hands,  I  grope  for  you  in  the  dark, 
and  I  shall  never  find  you  again  !  Oh  1  How 
terrible,  how  incredible  is  this  thought.  Thou- 
sands, millions  of  people  are  born  every  day, 
but  never  again  will  the  world  see  your  like ! 
"Who  is  it  that  has  dared,  that  has  taken  on 
himself  the  right  to  destroy  that  most  splendid 
work  of  nature — man  ?  You  tried  to  console 
me  with  the  assurance  that  your  soul  would 
live  for  ever  ;  but  of  what  use  is  your  soul  to 
me?  I  love  your  body,  your  eyes,  your  features. 
When  I  meet,  in  the  street,  someone  who  but 
slightly  resembles  you,  I  blush,  and  the  blood 
rushes  to  my  heart.  Your  irresistible  smile, 
your  charming  laugh,  maddened  me  with 
happiness  !  And  now — all  is  over.  You  will 
never  smile  again,  you  will  never  look  at  me 
with  your  beloved  blue  eyes.  To-morrow 
worms  will  begin  ito  eat  this  flesh  that  is 
dearer  to  me  than  all  else  on  earth,  and  I  am 
powerless  to  prevent  this  outrage.  Oh,  ye 


94  THE  EMIGRANT 

gods !     How  have  I  sinned,    that   I   should 
have  deserved  to  suffer  so  madly  ? 

"  Rather  than  this,  why  were  you  not  un- 
true to  "me — why  did  you  not  go  away,  and 
love  another  ?  Terrible  as  this  would  have 
been,  I  should  at  least  have  known  that  you 
lived,  that  my  eyes  could  look  upon  you. 
Secretly,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  I 
could  have  come  to  gaze  upon  you,  and  this 
would  have  given  me  life. 

"  Oh  !  Why  do  we  not  know  the  future  ? 
Why  does  fate  give  us  no  warning  ?  How 
much  time  I  lost  in  idle  gossiping  with  girl 
friends,  in  needless  outings  and  amusements, 
while  I  might  have  spent  this  time  in  talking 
with  you,  in  gazing  at  you,  in  enjoying  your 
caresses  ! 

"  The  moon  will  appear  in  the  sky,  the 
nightingales  will  sing,  but  you  will  not  hear 
them.  The  sun  will  rise,  but  its  rays  will  not 
penetrate  into  your  cold  tomb.  Life  at  best 
is  but  short,  and  now  you  yourself,  of  your 
own  free  will,  have  deprived  yourself  prema- 
turely of  its  joys. 

"  Oh !     This  terrible,  meaningless  life  !     I 


THE  EMIGRANT  95 

am  cold,  I  shiver,  I  cannot  live  in  the  world 
without  you !  All  is  pale,  all  is  dark  and 
tarnished  around  me.  Nothing  interests  me, 
nothing  pleases  me.  Alone !  Alone !  From 
now  onwards,  alone  on  this  accursed  earth." 

And  the  unhappy  one  repeatedly  kissed  the 
dead  body,  passionately  embraced  it,  beating 
her  head  upon  the  sand. 

Irene  clearly  heard  the  groans,  curses,  and 
cries  that  re-echoed  in  the  ancient  circus. 
Tears  fell  from  her  eyes.  She  forgot  where 
she  was,  and  started  when  Gzhatski,  having 
also  for  some  time  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
arena,  broke  the  silence  by  a  sudden  remark. 

"  May  I  ask  you  an  indiscreet  question  ?" 
he  asked,  turning  sharply  round,  and  facing 
his  companion.  "  Is  it  really  true  that  you 
have  decided  to  be  a  traitor  to  your  faith,  and 
become  a  Roman  Catholic  ?" 

"  Why  a  traitor  ?"  retorted  Irene,  a  little 
angrily.  "  Orthodox  Russians  and  Catholics 
believe  alike  in  the  Gospel,  and  that  is  the 
principal  thing.  As  to  dogmas,  they  were  all 
invented  by  the  perverted  intelligence  of 


96  THE  EMIGRANT 

crafty  Byzantian  Greeks,  who  did  not  under- 
stand the  Gospel  in  the  least,  and  dragged  it 
down  to  their  own  level  by  eternal  quib- 
bling about  words.  Already,  in  my  childhood, 
I  studied  with  disgust  the  history  of  the  CEcu- 
menical  Councils,  and  found  nothing  intelli- 
gent in  them,  except  the  decision  of  the 
seventh  one,  that  there  should  be  no  more. 
Evidently  all  the  theologians  had  become  so 
entangled  in  their  own  disputes  that  they 
had  grown  desperate,  and  had  at  last  realized 
that  the  more  they  talk  the  further  they  get 
from  the  truth." 

"  But  if  you  despise  dogmas,  and  believe 
only  in  the  Gospel,  then  why  need  you  give 
up  Orthodoxy  ?" 

"  I  am  leaving  Orthodoxy  because,  among 
the  Catholic  clergy,  I  have  found  a  man  who 
is  a  true  believer,  who  guides  me,  and  helps 
me  to  unravel  my  own  doubts,  and  to  see  the 
true  meaning  of  life." 

"In  other  words,  like  so  many  Russian 
ladies,  you  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a 
clever  Jesuit." 

"In  other  words,  like  so  many   Russian 


THE  EMIGRANT  97 

men,  you  have  gathered  your  information 
about  Jesuits  in  the  novel  '  The  Eternal 
Jew.' " 

"  I  have  never  read  that  novel.  I  only  see 
very  clearly  that  your  dear  Pater  wants 
money  for  some  convent,  and  therefore  wants 
to  shut  you  up  in  it." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Pere  Etienne  thinks 
that  I  shall  be  happier  in  a  convent  than  in 
the  world.  He  has  no  objection  to  an  Ortho- 
dox convent.  He  only  told  me,  a  few  days 
ago,  that  he  always  speaks  of  Catholic  ones, 
because  he  knows  nothing  about  Russian 
convent  life." 

"  But  why,  then,  do  you  not  go  into  some 
Russian  convent  ?" 

"  Because  I  know  them  too  well.  A  Rus- 
sian convent  is  a  collection  of  vulgar,  chatter- 
ing, idle,  lower-class  women.  The  convent 
itself  is  a  vulgar  absurdity,  since  it  is  neither 
directed  nor  controlled  by  anybody.  And, 
indeed,  who  is  to  control  it  ?  Not  the  officials 
of  the  Synod,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  is  not  all  that  true  also  of  Roman 
Catholic  convents  ?" 

7 


98  THE  EMIGRANT 

"No.  Every  Catholic  convent  has  not 
only  its  own  head,  but  also  higher  control 
and  direction.  The  discipline  is  quite  dif- 
ferent. Every  Italian  convent  has  one  definite 
aim  and  object :  to  give  its  inmates  the  pos- 
sibility of  saving  their  souls  in  peace  and 
silence,  and  everything  is  done  for  the  attain- 
ment of  this  object." 

"  Well,  even  if  we  admit  that  this  is  true — 
by  what  right  do  you  turn  your  back  on  all 
that  life  imposes  on  you,  and  think  of  nobody 
and  nothing  but  the  saving  of  your  own  soul  ?" 

"  By  what  right !"  exclaimed  Irene  in 
amazement.  "  What  a  strange  question !" 

"Allow  me.  The  Gospel,  which  you  ap- 
parently respect,  teaches  us  that  we  are  all 
brothers,  that  we  must  help  each  other  and 
live  for  each  other.  Whom  will  you  help, 
whom  will  you  save,  if  you  hide  yourself  in 
a  convent  and  think  of  nothing  but  your  own 
soul?" 

"  Had  I  taken  the  veil  when  I  was  twenty, 
there  might  perhaps  have  been  some  reason 
in  your  reproaches.  But  I  am  now  forty. 
I  have  lived  through  a  long  life,  and  have 


THE  EMIGRANT  99 

convinced  myself  that  I  can  be  of  no  use  to 
my  fellows.  My  views  on  life  are  so  personal 
to  me  that  no  one  will  ever  understand  me. 
I  have  always  suffered  through  the  vulgarity 
and  roughness  of  other  people,  and  as  time 
passes  I  despise  mankind  more  and  more. 
In  separating  myself  from  human  companion- 
ship, I  may,  little  by  little,  forget  what  people 
are  like,  and  so  may  perhaps  learn  to  love 
them  a  little." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  among  all  your  friends 
and  acquaintances,  you  have  never  met  one 
man  who  might  be  worthy  of  your  attention 
or  your  love  ?" 

Irene  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Russian  men  have  not  reached  the  period 
of  development  at  which  they  could  under- 
stand good  women.  They  are  still  in  the 
harem  period,  and  they  need  only  rough, 
vulgar,  immoral  females." 

"  I  see  you  can  make  nice  compliments. 
But  if  you  have  such  a  poor  opinion  of  our 
higher  circles,  what  about  the  masses  ? 
What  about  our  honest,  simple-minded,  warm- 
hearted, noble-souled  people?  Is  it  possible 


ioo  THE  EMIGRANT 

that  they  awaken  no  sympathy  in  you,  that 
you  have  never  felt  the  wish  to  help  them,  to 
educate  them  ?" 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  of  those  pitiful 
cowards !"  exclaimed  Irene  contemptuously. 
41  They  are  incapable  of  anything  better  than 
losing  the  war,  and  disgracing  Russia  in  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  world." 

"  I  see  you  hold  somewhat  original  views. 
Hundreds  and  thousands  of  soldiers  have 
become  hopeless  cripples  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives,  in  order  to  keep  the  enemy  from  our 
Russian  soil,  and  in  order  to  ensure  for  idle 
people  like  you  the  secure  and  safe  enjoyment 
of  their  leisure  and  their  capital.  And  in 
return  you  travel  in  strange  lands,  and  insult 
our  modest  heroes.  Allow  me  to  congratulate 
you — such  sentiments  unquestionably  do  you 
honour." 

Irene  blushed,  but  maintained  a  scornful 
silence.  Several  minutes  passed.  The  English 
party,  with  its  guide  and  torches,  drew  near. 
Gzhatski  rose,  bowed  dryly  to  Irene,  and 
joined  the  tourists. 


VII 

THEY  separated,  both  with  the  feeling  of 
having  said  a  great  deal  that  was  needless. 
On  the  whole,  however,  Irene  was  almost 
pleased  that  she  had  succeeded,  for  once  in 
her  life,  in  expressing  to  a  Russian  man 
the  profound  contempt  that  he  and  all  his 
like  awakened  in  her.  As  often  happens 
in  such  cases,  her  indignation  had  poured 
itself  out  on  the  wrong  person.  Sergei 
Gzhatski  had  nothing  whatever  in  common 
with  Irene's  despised  and  hated  Petrograd 
career-hunters.  His  life  indeed  had  arranged 
itself  in  its  own  fashion.  He  was  born  in 
Petrograd,  but  having,  at  the  age  of  three, 

been  taken  to  the  far-off  province  of  S , 

he  had  remained  there  until  his  eighteenth 

year.     His  mother  had  suffered  a  paralytic 

stroke  after  the  birth  of  her  second  child, 

101 


102  THE  EMIGRANT 

and  had  therefore  been  ordered  to  live  in 
the  country,  which  she  did  until  her  death. 
Deeply  hurt  by  the  fact  that  her  husband 
had  been  unwilling  to  sacrifice  to  her  illness 
his  brilliant  position   in  Petrograd,  she  had 
turned  away  from  him,  and  lavished  all  her 
love  upon   her   child.     By  her  desire   little 
.Sergei  had  been  educated  at  home,  first  by 
governesses  and  later  by  tutors.     His  mother 
wielded    an    immense    influence    over    him. 
She    was    clever,    intuitive,    sensitive,    and 
religious,  and  she  brought  up  her  son  in  a 
way  that   is   more   than   rare   in    Petrograd 
families,  where  parents  are  too  occupied  with 
the  distractions  of  the  Metropolis  to  pay  much 
attention    to   their  children.     Sergei  adored 
his  invalid  mother,  and  her  illness  filled  his 
heart  with  profound  pity.     He  never  indeed 
forgave  his  father  for  being  so  indifferent  to 
her,  and  felt  but  little  love  or  sympathy  for 
the   latter.      On   the   death   of  his   mother, 
Sergei  was  sent  to  college,  where,  thanks  to 
an  excellent  grounding,  he  worked  splendidly. 
He   did  not,  however,  like  Petrograd,  and 
having   finished   his   course,  he   decided,  in 


THE  EMIGRANT  103 

spite  of  his  father's  advice  and  persuasion  to 

the  contrary,  to  return  to  the  S estate, 

which  his  mother  had  left  him.  He  loved 
country  life,  managed  his  estate  well,  and 
greatly  increased  the  prosperity  of  his  farms 
and  crops.  He  occupied  himself  also  with 
social  activities,  and  was  first  chosen  Marshal 
of  the  Nobility  of  the  district,  and  then  of 
the  whole  province.  He  was  greatly  loved 
and  respected,  being  a  man  of  the  old  school, 
honourable  and  conscientious,  and  as  full  of 
consideration  for  the  interests  of  all  the  noble 
families  in  the  neighbourhood  as  for  his  own 
well-being  and  prosperity. 

His  dream  was  a  happy  hearth  and  home 
and  a  large  family,  and  yet  he  never  married. 
Perhaps  the  reason  of  this  might  have  been 
found  in  the  pure  and  sacred  image  of  his 
mother,  with  which  he  unconsciously  com- 
pared all  other  women  to  their  detriment  ; 
also  a  little  in  the  fact  that  he  was  inclined 
to  be  proud  and  suspicious.  He  rarely  went 
to  Petrograd,  and  the  provincial  young  ladies 

whom  he  met  in  S were  far  too  frankly 

in  ecstasies  before  his  wealth  and  brilliant 


io4  THE  EMIGRANT 

position.  Gzhatski  was  never  happy  abroad, 
and  now  deeply  regretted  that,  after  an  attack 
of  inflammation  of  the  lungs  caught  during 
an  autumn  hunt,  his  doctors  had  persuaded 
him  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  winter  in  Italy. 

In  spite  of  the  mutual  impertinences  they 
had  exchanged  at  their  first  meeting,  Irene 
had  not  displeased  Gzhatski,  and,  seeing  her 
a  few  days  later  on  the  Corso,  he  approached 
her  with  a  friendly  greeting.  Irene  was  so 
touched  by  this  absence  of  rancour,  that, 
wishing  to  destroy  the  unpleasant  impression 
of  their  previous  conversation,  she  invited 
him  to  come  and  see  her.  Two  days  later 
Gzhatski  availed  himself  of  her  invitation, 
and,  in  the  good  old  provincial  Russian 
fashion,  stayed  three  hours !  He  told  Irene 

all  about  his  estate  and  about  the  other  S 

landowners,  and  expressed  his  horror  at  the 
indecent  haste  with  which  many  of  them, 
frightened  by  the  recent  "  revolution,"  had 
sold  their  ancestral  estates  and  moved  to 
Petrograd. 

"  I  say  nothing,"  he  remarked,  "  of  the 
fact  that  their  children  will  be  penniless, 


THE  EMIGRANT 

since  they  will  very  quickly  lose  their  newly 
acquired  money  in  all  sorts  of  doubtful 
speculations ;  our  landowners  are  prover- 
bially credulous  and  unbusinesslike  !  But  the 
principal  trouble  is  that  these  ruined  children 
will,  in  addition,  have  lost  the  ties  which 
bound  them  to  our  soil — and  it  is  my  firm 
belief  that  one  can  only  be  a  true  patriot  if  one 
has  lived  from  childhood  on  one's  own  land 
and  among  one's  own  people,  and  has  stored 
in  one's  heart  all  the  charming  recollections 
and  associations  of  an  early  youth  spent  in 
one's  ancestral  country  home.  Even  now, 
when  after  a  long  absence  I  approach  my 
little  station,  my  heart  beats,  and  I  recognize 
with  joy,  almost  with  tenderness,  the  station 
officials,  my  coachman,  my  troika*  It  is  all 
near  and  dear  to  me  ;  the  woods,  the  fields, 
the  peasants  who  greet  me  smilingly,  and 
who  have  known  and  loved  me  all  my  life. 
How  much  that  is  sacred  breathes  in  memo- 
ries of  childhood,  and  how  sad  life  must  be 
when  they  are  absent !  I  think,  for  instance, 
that  if  you,  Irene  Pavlovna,  had  in  your  heart 

*  A  sledge  with  three  horses  abreast. — ED. 


io6  THE  EMIGRANT 

the  remembrance  of  some  modest  little  village 
church  where  you  prayed  as  a  child,  you 
would  never  have  dreamt  of  betraying  the 
faith  of  your  childhood ;  you  would  never 
-even  have  formulated  your  vague,  cosmo- 
politan belief  in  Christ,  a  belief  that  certainly 
cannot  give  you  happiness." 

From  that  day  they  became  friends.  Irene 
enjoyed  the  society  of  Gzhatski,  who  was 
always  gay,  interesting,  and  sincere.  How- 
ever dear  Italy  had  grown  to  her,  however 
deeply  she  respected  Pere  Etienne,  it  was 
delightful  to  talk  to  a  Russian,  a  man  of  her 
own  race,  her  own  social  circle,  and  her  own 
education  and  traditions.  She  never  sus- 
pected that  she,  on  her  side,  represented  for 
Gzhatski  a  sort  of  anchor  of  salvation. 

Poor  Gzhatski  had  been  unbearably  lonely 
in  Rome.  Active,  energetic,  busy  as  he  had 
always  been,  the  enforced  idleness  of  this  new 
existence  was  insufferable  to  him.  The  Roman 
museums  and  monuments  did  not  touch  his 
heart.  He  had  not  enough  imagination  to 
people  them  with  shadows  of  the  past,  as  did 
Irene.  He  tried  to  study  Rome  with  a 


THE  EMIGRANT  107 

Baedeker's  guide-book  in  his  hand,  but  soon 
abandoned  the  task,  and  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  all  the  churches  and  ruins  and  gal- 
leries were  exactly  alike. 

"  When  you  have  seen  one,  you  have  seen 
them  all,"  he  remarked  frankly  to  his  acquain- 
tances. 

Gzhatski  had  begun  to  take  an  interest  in 
Italian  fox-hunting,  but  happened  the  very 
first  time  he  joined  a  hunt  to  be  caught  in  a 
downpour  of  rain,  and  developed  such  a 
severe  chill  that  his  alarmed  doctor  forbade 
him  any  future  expeditions  of  the  kind,  on 
pain  of  death  from  galloping  consumption ! 

Every  day  the  poor  man  wandered  about 
sadly  and  aimlessly,  finding  fault  with  every- 
thing, hating  everything,  and  abusing  the 
strange  Southern  town  that  held  him 
prisoner !  Everything  irritated  him,  even 
the  climate,  with  its  eternally  warm,  balmy 
breezes,  even  the  dry  Southern  vegetation. 
Often,  when  sitting  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Villa  Borghese,  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  pic- 
tured to  himself  a  Russian  winter,  the  snow 
on  the  fields  gleaming  under  the  blue  sky, 


io8'  THE  EMIGRANT 

the  red  sun,  the  little  waves  of  smoke  rising 
from  a  cottage  chimney,  the  crunch  of  foot- 
steps on  the  frozen  ground,  the  frosty, 
invigorating  air  .  .  . !  And  then  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  looked  resentfully  at  the  broad 
Roman  pines  and  the  dusty  grass  and  shrubs. 

"  What  is  this  extraordinary  time  of  the 
year  ?"  grumbled  Gzhatski  capriciously.  "It 
is  not  autumn,  because  there  are  no  yellow 
leaves ;  it  is  not  winter,  because  it  is  not 
cold ;  it  is  not  summer,  because  it  is  not  hot ; 
and  it  is  not  spring,  because  there  is  nothing 
vivifying  or  rejuvenating  in  the  air.  No — 
this  is  a  sort  of  fifth  season,  Roman,  stupid, 
and  senseless !" 

He  watched  the  passing  crowd  with  ani- 
mosity. They  all  seemed  to  him  to  be 
dressed  in  their  Sunday  best !  There  go 
two  young  Italian  brunettes,  in  fashionable 
tight  skirts,  with  wide  fur  scarves  on  their 
shoulders,  showing,  under  their  short  dresses, 
dainty  feet,  shod  as  for  a  ball  in  elegant  open 
shoes  over  open-work  silk  stockings.  Here 
is  a  baby  being  taken  for  a  walk,  in  a  little 
white  pique  summer  coat,  a  hat  to  match, 


THE  EMIGRANT  109 

and  a  huge  collar  of  white  goat-fur !  And 
behind  comes  something  quite  wild — two 
little  boys  and  a  girl  in  sailor  suits,  without 
coats,  and  with  bare  legs  and  necks — yet  the 
little  girl  carries  an  enormous  muff,  and  the 
boys  have  sealskin  caps  ! 

"  I  suppose  they  have  heard  that  people 
wear  furs  in  the  winter,  but  they  don't  know 
exactly  how,  so  they  have  made  guys  of 
themselves !"  muttered  Gzhatski  crossly. 

His  loneliness  was  even  greater  than  his 
despair.  He  had  already  decided  to  risk  his 
health  and  return  to  Russia,  when  his  meet- 
ing with  Irene  turned  his  thoughts  into 
another  channel.  He  had  no  difficulty  in 
assuring  himself  that  she  was  the  victim  of 
Jesuit  priests,  that  the  poor  girl  was  being 
wickedly  deceived,  and  that  it  was  his  duty  as 
a  compatriot  to  come  to  her  aid  and  save  her. 
With  all  the  accumulated  energy  of  all  those 
idle  weeks,  he  threw  himself  into  the  struggle 
with  Pere  Etienne,  and  in  spite  of  Irene's 
wish  to  bring  her  two  friends  together, 
Gzhatski  curtly  refused  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  "  Catholic  rogue."  He 


no  THE  EMIGRANT 

was  very  annoyed  to  see  how  obstinately 
Irene  defended  her  friendship  with  the  priest, 
and  used  all  his  eloquence  to  disillusion  her 
on  the  subject  of  convent  life. 

"And  what  is  the  meaning  of  that  insuffer- 
able manner,  he  cried  irritably,  "  in  which  all 
priests  make  a  prisoner  of  Christ,  and  an- 
nounce to  the  world  that  He  can  only  be 
found  in  their  churches  ?  They  lie !  I  don't 
deny  that  in  the  early  days  of  Christianity, 
monasteries  and  convents  really  represented 
Christian  oases  in  a  pagan  desert.  But  that 
time  has  long  since  passed.  Christ  has  long 
ago  left  the  monasteries,  and  dwells  among 
us,  in  our  science,  our  literature,  our  law.  We 
may  quarrel  as  much  as  we  please,  we  may 
accuse  each  other  of  treachery,  but  in  spite 
of  everything,  we  are  all  going  along  the 
path  of  Christian  progress.  Every  time  we 
liberate  slaves  in  America  or  serfs  in  Russia, 
every  time  we  abolish  torture  or  corporal 
punishment,  we  are  proclaiming  liberty  and 
brotherhood,  we  are  serving  Christ,  and  Christ 
is  among  us.  Let  them  say,  if  they  will,  that 
the  foundations  of  Christianity  are  shaking, 
that  Christianity  is  at  its  last  ebb,  and  must 


THE  EMIGRANT  nr 

make  way  for  a  new  religion.  It  is  absurd 
even  to  listen  to  these  wild  speeches.  Chris- 
tianity is  eternal,  if  only  because  Christ  did 
not  invent  anything  strange  or  new  or  incom- 
prehensible, but  expressed  clearly  and  simply 
truths  which  every  human  being  feels  dimly 
in  his  soul.  It  is  not  Christianity  that  will 
disappear,  but  its  old  and  worn-out  forms. 
Christianity  is  slowly  and  surely  passing  from 
the  realms  of  legend  and  romance  into  real 
daily  life,  where  it  will  take  root  more  and 
more  firmly,  until  it  reigns  supreme  on  earth. 
As  to  your  convents,  they  are  nothing  but 
empty  hives  that  the  working-bees  have  long 
ago  abandoned,  while  the  monks  are  drones 
who  have  remained  behind  to  linger  lazily  in 
the  old  place  until  they  die.  Is  it  possible 
that  you,  with  your  heart  and  your  intelli- 
gence, can  wish  to  end  your  life  among  these 
unnecessary,  useless,  sleeping  drones  ?" 

Irene  listened  in  dismay.  Both  Gzhatski 
and  Pere  Etienne  spoke  so  eloquently  and 
with  such  conviction.  Which  of  them  was  in 
the  right  ?" 

"And  what  a  wild  idea!"  exclaimed Gshatski 
furiously,  "  to  become  a  nun !  Do  you  really 


ii2  THE  EMIGRANT 

think  there  are  not  enough  nuns  in  Rome 
without  you  ?  Why,  the  whole  town  is  teem- 
ing with  convents  that  give  one  no  peace 
with  their  everlasting  bells.  How  many  sick 
women  and  weak  children  are  there  in  Rome, 
who  need  rest  and  sleep  ?  And  yet  those 
imbeciles  start  their  pandemonium  at  five 
o'clock  every  morning.  You  see,  they  have 
to  save  their  precious  souls.  We  in  Russia, 
with  our  modest  monks  and  nuns,  can  hardly 
grasp  the  extent  of  the  impudence  of  these 
Southern  religious  orders,  and  the  fury  to 
which  they  can  drive  people.  I  perfectly 
understand  why  they  were  expelled  from 
France,  and  I  only  profoundly  regret  that 
they  have  not  yet  been  expelled  from  Italy. 
Just  look  what  they  have  done  with  Rome. 
It  is  no  longer  a  city,  it  is  one  huge  cemetery. 
I  can't  listen  to  that  eternal  dull  sound  of 
bells.  It  always  seems  to  me  that  they  are 
burying  me  alive,  and  celebrating  masses  for 
the  peace  of  my  sinful  soul.  I  always  feel 
inclined  to  cry  out :  '  You  lie  !  I  am  alive  ! 
And  I  am  going  to  live  a  long  time  yet,  and 
do  many  useful  things.'  " 


THE  EMIGRANT  113 

In  his  enthusiasm,  Gzhatski  sometimes 
took  recourse  to  means  of  which  he  himself 
would  at  another  time  have  disapproved. 
Thus,  on  one  occasion,  he  began,  with  a 
malicious  smile  and  in  some  excitement, 
almost  before  he  had  shaken  hands  : 

"  You  always  go  to  the  Via  Gallic.  But 
do  you  know  by  what  nickname  your  Sceurs 
Mauves  are  known  in  Roman  Society  ?" 

"Nickname?"  questioned  Irene.  "I  did 
not  know  nuns  could  have  nicknames." 

"  They  are  called  '  Les  Hetairas  du  bon 
Dieu,'  "  said  Gzhatski,  lowering  his  voice. 

Irene  was  angry. 

"Are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself?"  she 
exclaimed  indignantly.  "  You  call  yourself  a 
gentleman,  and  you  find  it  possible  to  insult 
these  saintly  women,  who  deserve  the  pro- 
foundest  respect.  I  quite  believe  that  the 
young  people  of  the  present  day  are  capable 
of  inventing  this  or  any  other  obscenity. 
In  their  eyes,  all  women  are  low  and  worth- 
less, and  they  cannot  imagine  or  understand 
anything  good  or  noble.  But  you — you  ! 
That  you  should  repeat  such  things  !" 

8 


ii4  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  Well,  well,  I  beg  your  pardon/'  said  the 
confused  and  apologetic  Gzhatski.  "  I  did 
not  mean  to  offend  you.  I  only  wanted  to 
tell  you  how-painful  to  me  is  the  thought  that 
you,  my  countrywoman,  will  also  be  known 
by  this  shameful  title." 

But  the  offended  Irene  would  not  listen  to 
his  apologies.  Immediately  after  Gzhatski's 
departure  (a  somewhat  hasty  departure  on 
this  occasion),  she  went  off  to  the  convent. 
She  hurried  along,  with  the  feeling  one  has 
when  one  rushes  to  friends  who  have  just 
suffered  some  trouble  or  misfortune.  Al- 
though Irene  had  never  seen  the  face  of  a 
single  one  of  the  sisters,  nor  had  spoken  to 
any  of  them,  she  had  gradually,  through  these 
daily  hours  of  common  prayer,  come  to  regard 
them  as  her  personal  friends.  She  was  there- 
fore anxious,  on  this  occasion,  to  prove  by 
her  presence  her  resentment  of  the  insult 
offered  to  them  by  idle,  vulgar  gossips. 

Evensong  was  almost  at  an  end  when 
Irene  entered  the  church.  There  were  very 
few  people,  the  choir  was  singing  an  exultant 
hymn,  the  nuns  were  frozen  into  a  sort  of 
beatific  ecstasy.  Irene  gazed  at  them  long 


THE  EMIGRANT  115 

and  seriously,  and  suddenly  realized  that  no 
insult  could  possibly  reach  them,  that  it  was 
beyond  the  power  of  anyone  to  offend  them. 
They  were  above  all  earthly  troubles ;  no- 
thing earthly  had  any  value  for  them,  all  their 
hopes  and  dreams  were  concentrated  in  the 
next  world.  Thus,  an  emigrant,  during  his 
first  days  on  board  ship,  thinks  restlessly  of 
the  home  he  has  left  behind  him,  but  when 
weeks  have  slipped  away,  his  interest  in  the 
past  grows  fainter,  and  he  thinks  and  dreams 
only  of  what  he  will  find  in  the  new  land. 

Pere  Etienne  noticed  Irene's  restlessness, 
but  although  he  was  well  aware  of  her  friend- 
ship with  Gzhatski,  never  mentioned  the  Rus- 
sian's name.  The  clever,  self-controlled  priest 
neither  opposed  nor  contradicted  Gzhatski's 
views  on  Roman  Catholicism,  views  which 
made  themselves  clearly  felt  in  all  Irene's 
words  and  arguments.  He  only  more  elo- 
quently than  ever  advocated  the  convent. 
Under  his  influence,  Irene  saw  before  her  a 
happy,  peaceful  old  age,  illuminated  by 
constant  sunshine,  in  the  lap  of  luxurious 
Southern  nature.  And  then  came  Gzhatski 
to  destroy  this  dream  ;  for,  listening  to  his 


n6  THE  EMIGRANT 

words,  as  eloquent  as  any  of  Pere  Etienne's, 
she  grew  vaguely  ashamed  of  having  aban- 
doned her  home  and  her  country,  that  dear 
Russia,  of  which  Gzhatski  spoke  with  such 
love  and  enthusiasm.  He  tried  hard,  indeed, 
to  point  out  to  Irene  all  the  charm  and  good- 
ness of  the  Russian  people,  and  bitterly  re- 
proached her  for  having  so  light-mindedly 
hardened  her  heart  and  turned  away  from 
them. 

"  You  have  invented  for  yourself  all  sorts 
of  fantastic  heroes,"  he  said.  And  you  are 
unreasonably  cross  because  you  do  not  meet 
them  in  real  life.  Be  reasonable,  Irene  Pav- 
lovna !  Human  beings  are  simply  animals. 
It  is  not  so  very  long  since  they  lived  in 
caves  and  dressed  in  skins.  They  have  not 
been  lazy.  They  have  worked  zealously  at 
themselves,  and  have  attained  much.  It  is 
not  their  fault  if  it  needs  another  thousand 
centuries  to  perfect  them,  to  entirely  over- 
throw the  animal,  and  to  attain  the  spiritual 
ideal  that  God  has  placed  before  them.  If 
you  personally  have  already  attained  all  this, 
that  is  your  special  good  luck  ;  but,  pardon 
me,  I  doubt  it  exceedingly.  Your  life  is  not 


THE  EMIGRANT  117 

at  an  end  yet,  and  the  savage  beast  may  yet 
awaken  in  you  quite  unexpectedly.  I,  of 
course,  perfectly  understand  your  dislike  of 
the  Petrograd  career-hunters.  I  do  not 
greatly  admire  them  myself.  Nevertheless, 
I  still  assert  that  ambition,  especially  in 
Russia,  is  more  a  virtue  than  a  vice.  We 
Slavs  are  so  listless  and  lazy,  that  without 
ambition  we  become,  at  the  very  best, 
Oblomoffs,*  and  at  the  worst,  primitive 
beasts.  You  don't  know  the  kind  of  types 
one  meets  in  our  far  away  provinces. 

"  You  are  very  proud  of  the  fact  that  you 
care  nothing  for  wealth  or  rank.  But  do  you 
know,  Irene  Pavlovna,  that  this  is  only  an- 
other sign  of  a  morbid,  diseased  nature  ?  I 
always  have  the  feeling  that  your  ancestors 
must  have  lived  too  forcibly,  too  passionately 
— they  have  left  you  the  legacy  of  an  ex- 
hausted organism,  and  you  no  longer  have  the 
strength  to  love  or  care  for  anything.  In 
your  place,  I  should  try  to  cultivate  artificially 
some  passion  that  would  attach  you  more 
firmly  to  Mother  Earth  !" 

*  A  famous  character  in  a  novel  by  Goncharoff,  the 
type  of  a  talented  failure. 


VIII 

PERE  ETIENNE,  feeling  that  the  struggle  with 
Gzhatski  was  getting  beyond  his  strength, 
began  to  look  round  for  help,  and,  as  a  first 
step,  advised  Irene  to  hear  some  of  the  ser- 
mons that  are  preached  on  certain  days  at 
most  of  the  principal  Roman  churches.  On 
the  following  Sunday,  she  made  her  way  to 
San  Luigi  dei  Francesi,  a  church  famous  for 
the  eloquence  of  its  preachers.  The  sermon 
was  to  be  preached  at  four  o'clock,  before 
Vespers.  The  organ  was  playing  softly  as 
Irene  entered  the  splendid  edifice,  with  its 
magnificent  marble  pillars  and  bronze  decora- 
tion. Italian  preachers  in  Rome  usually 
speak  from  a  broad  covered  rostrum,  lined 
with  red  cloth,  in  which  frame  the  preacher, 
unable  to  restrain  his  excitement,  strides 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  gesticulates 

118 


THE  EMIGRANT  119 

wildly,  alternately  throwing  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  rising  again.  These  broad  ros- 
trums are  of  -very  ancient  origin ;  their 
prototype  is  still  to  be  found  among  the  ruins 
of  the  Forum,  where  they  served,  in  bygone 
days  of  the  Republic,  as  platforms  from  which 
the  populace  was  addressed. 

French  preachers  do  not  gesticulate.  They 
mount  a  little  winding  stairway,  to  a  round 
narrow  pulpit,  with  an  umbrella-like  baldaquin, 
in  which  their  little  figures  white-robed,  and 
with  black  pelerines,  look  like  Chinese  dolls. 
While  the  Italian  priest,  in  his  passionate 
ardour,  smites  his  chest  and  thunders  at  the 
congregation,  his  French  brother  pronounces 
a  calm,  well-thought  out  speech,  whose  aim 
is  to  astonish  by  its  brilliant  wit  and  its  fine 
subtlety. 

On  this  occasion,  the  sermon  was  on 
the  subject  of  the  cult  of  early  Christian 
martyrs.  It  was,  indeed,  rather  an  historical 
lecture  than  a  sermon.  The  preacher  made 
a  perfectly  expressed  and  masterly  exposition 
of  various  facts  hitherto  unknown  to  Irene, 
about  the  catacombs  ;  the  high  honour  in 


120  THE  EMIGRANT 

which  the  tombs  of  the  first  Christian  mar- 
tyrs were  held,  and  the  respect  shown  even 
to  false  martyrs,  i.e.,  to  deceased  Christians, 
given  out  by  their  ambitious  relatives  as  saints 
who  had  died  for  the  Faith.  These  falsifi- 
cations had,  according  to  the  preacher, 
assumed  such  enormous  proportions,  that  it 
had  been  found  necessary,  in  about  the 
second  century,  to  organize  a  special  com 
mission  with  the  purpose  of  looking  into  the 
matter. 

"Et  comme  un  faux  gentilhomme  est 
exclu  de  Parmorial,"  added  the  preacher,  a 
little  irrelevantly,  "  ainsi  ces  faux  martyrs 
furent  bannis  du  martyrologe." 

Irene  listened  with  interest,  but  wondered 
a  little  how  this  scientific,  historical,  slightly 
satirical  lecture  could  touch  or  help  the 
souls  of  the  listeners.  In  half  an  hour  it 
was  over,  and  Irene  rose  to  go,  when  sud- 
denly the  altar  was  brightly  illuminated,  the 
organ  began  to  play,  and  from  the  gallery 
floated  the  dulcet  tones  of  the  beautiful 
angel-voiced  choir.  Irene  had  never  heard 
such  passionate  romantic  singing,  except  at 


THE  EMIGRANT  121 

the  opera.  It  awakened  no  religious  inspira- 
tion in  her  ;  on  the  contrary,  closing  her  eyes 
in  complete  enjoyment,  caressed  by  the  soft- 
ness of  those  delicious  waves  of  sound,  she 
saw  before  her  her  once  -  idolized  singer 
Battestini,  in  the  title  role  of  Rubinstein's 
"  Demon."  The  unhappy  "  exiled  spirit  " 
was  wandering  in  the  desert,  solitary,  for- 
saken, heartbroken,  hopelessly  in  love ! 

"  All  the  sorrow,  all  the  suffering  of  life," 
he  sobbed  passionately  from  the  gallery,  "  is 
caused  by  solitude.  Live  together  in  couples  ! 
Love,  caress,  and  comfort  one  another  !  And 
above  all  things,  lose  no  time!  Enjoy  the 
delights  of  love,  while  you  can  !" 

The  sound  of  dull,  stifled  sobbing  fell  on 
Irene's  ear.  It  emanated  from  a  grey-haired 
old  man  beside  her,  who  had  fallen  on  his 
knees  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"He  weeps  because  it  is  too  late  for  him 
to  love,"  concluded  Irene,  as  she  glanced 
pityingly  at  the  bent  figure  of  the  old  man. 

The  service  ended ;  the  great  doors 
opened,  and  the  warm,  golden,  Roman  even- 
ing rushed  into  the  church.  Irene  turned 


122  THE  EMIGRANT 

her  steps  homewards,  enjoying  the  blue  sky, 
and  the  gay  good-natured  Sunday  crowd 
that  filled  the  streets.  Somewhere  in  the 
distance  a  military  band  was  playing,  the  air 
was  full  of  laughter  and  merriment.  Pretty 
children,  in  their  best  frocks,  and  with  little 
bare  legs,  were  frolicking  about  to  the  evident 
delight  of  their  parents,  who  watched  them 
with  tender  caressing  smiles. 

"  How  glorious,  how  beautiful  life  is !" 
thought  Irene,  still  under  the  impression  of 
the  singing.  But  having  traversed  two 
streets  and  turned  into  the  Piazza.  Venezia, 
she  suddenly  stopped  short,  horror-struck. 

"  But  they  did  not  sing  about  earthly  love 
at  all  /"  she  exclaimed  to  herself  in  complete 
confusion.  "  How  could  such  thoughts  ever 
be  awakened  by  their  prayers  ?  How  did  it 
happen?  How  came  I  to  fall  into  such  an 
error  ?" 

Irene  was  both  amazed  and  ashamed,  and 
decided  to  say  nothing  to  Pere  Etienne  about 
her  impressions  of  the  service.  This,  how- 
ever, was  not  as  easy  as  it  seemed.  The 
wily  priest  cross-examined  her  severely,  and 


THE  EMIGRANT  123 

of  course,  Irene  ended  by  admitting  every- 
thing. Pere  Etienne  frowned.  He  knew 
all  about  this  tragic  "  Demon,"  singing  so 
passionately  in  the  desert — he  had  met  him 
twice  in  the  corridor,  on  the  way  to  Irene's 
room  ! 

"  You  are  far  too  impressionable,"  he 
observed  severely,  *"  and  music  evidently 
irritates  your  nerves.  You  will  do  better  to 
attend  the  lectures  of  Monsignor  Berra,  in 
the  convent  of  the  Ursulines. 

Irene  agreed,  and,  on  the  appointed  day, 
knocked  at  the  small  door  of  the  convent  in 
the  Via   Flavia.     The  sister  who  answered 
her   knock    glanced   at    the   pass   ticket   in 
Irene's  hand,  and   led   her  through  a  quad- 
rangle with  slim  Gothic  columns.     Irene  was 
astonished  at  the  silence.     Only  a  few  steps 
away  was  the   crowded,    noisy   street  —  yet 
here  reigned  the  stillness  of  the  grave.    She 
raised   the   leather   curtain   with  which    the 
doors   of    churches    in    Rome  -are    always 
covered  during  the  winter,  and  found  herself 
in  a  cold,   damp,  but   very  elegant    chapel, 
filled  with  ladies,  young  girls,  and  children. 


I24  THE  EMIGRANT 

Men  were  not  admitted  here  —  only  two 
abbots  were  modestly  hiding  themselves  in  a 
corner. 

The  nuns,  true  to  their  traditions,  did  not 
show  themselves  at  all,  but  from  somewhere 
on  high  came  the  sound  of  the  organ,  while 
the  fresh  young  voices  of  the  convent  school 
children  sang  the  prayers. 

"  Well,"  thought  Irene  with  a  smile,  "  at 
least  "this  singing  will  not  lead  me  into 
temptation !" 

After  a  short  service,  Monsignor  Berra,  a 
handsome,  clever  old  man,  entered  the  pulpit. 
Expressing  himself  in  that  most  elegant 
French  that  was  once  spoken  at  the  French 
Court,  but  that  is  now  forgotten  by  all  except, 
perhaps,  the  clergy,  he  began  a  lecture  on 
Esther. 

Irene  listened  with  pleasure  to  the  subtle, 
clever,  witty  phrases  of  the  priest,  punctuated 
by  long  quotations  from  Racine,  whose  name, 
however,  Berra  did  not  mention,  speaking  of 
him  only  as  "  the  most  Christian  of  all  poets." 
But  as  the  lecture  continued,  it  seemed  to 
grow  strangely  familiar  to  Irene,  and  sud- 


THE  EMIGRANT  125 

denly  she  remembered  what  association  it 
awakened  in  her  mind.  A  few  days  pre- 
viously, Lady  Muriel  had  taken  her  to  the 

Palazzo  of  the  N Embassy,  to  see   its 

famous,  beautiful  tapestries.  One  of  the 
rooms  was  lined  entirely  with  scenes  from 
the  story  of  Esther,  embroidered  after 
seventeenth-century  designs.  The  figures, 
indeed,  represented  neither  Persians  nor 
Jews,  but  simply  French  Marquises  and 
Viscounts,  who  had  temporarily  doffed  their 
powdered  wigs,  and  had  amused  themselves 
by  dressing  up  in  Persian  disguises. 

"When  I  look  at  Esther,"  the  witty 
daughter  of  the  Ambassador  had  remarked 
to  Irene,  pointing  to  the  tapestry,  "  I  always 
wonder  how  long  she  practised  and  rehearsed 
fainting,  before  carrying  it  out  so  gracefully  !" 

Listening  to  Berra,  Irene  had  quite  this 
same  impression  of  an  "imitation"  Esther! 
Described  by  him,  the  primitive,  passion- 
ate Jewess  became  an  affected  lady  of  the 
Court  of  Louis  XV.,  one  of  those  numerous 
favourites  who  knew  well  how  to  use  their 
coquetry  in  order  to  manage,  to  their  perfect 


126  THE  EMIGRANT 

satisfaction,  their  own  little  affairs  and  those 
of  all  their  relatives  and  friends  ! 

Towards  the  end  of  the  lecture,  the 
preacher  abandoned  his  tone  of  levity,  and 
grew  serious.  In  connection  with  Esther's 
fervent  prayer,  he  remarked  that  if  our 
prayers  remain  unanswered  to-day,  it  is  only 
because  they  are  so  cold  and  proud. 

"  Imagine,  Mesdames,"  he  said,  "a  beggar 
who  would  approach  you  in  the  street,  asking 
for  alms,  in  a  cold,  proud  voice,  as  though  he 
were  demanding  his  due !  Would  you  not  be 
justly  incensed  ?  Would  you  not  turn  away 
and  rather  bestow  your  bounty  upon  one  who 
asks  it  humbly  and  in  tears  ?  Pray  then  also 
to  God  like  humble  supplicants,  trusting  in 
His  mercy  and  goodness." 

Irene  returned  home,  much  impressed  by 
these  words.  "Yes,"  she  thought — she  was 
undoubtedly  to  be  counted  among  the  proud 
beggars!  She  knew  her  own  virtues,  and 
she  considered  she  had  a  right  to  demand  a 
reward  from  God.  How  would  it  be  if  she 
were  to  change  the  nature  of  her  prayers? 
And,  under  the  impulse  of  a  new  hope,  she 


THE  EMIGRANT  127 

fell  on  her  knees,  weeping,  sobbing,  praying  : 
"  Lord !  I  am  but  a  humble  supplicant !  I 
resign  all  my  rights  and  privileges  !  I  ask 
only  for  mercy !  Send  me  happiness — and  if 
that  is  impossible,  then  give  me  at  least  rest, 
that  spiritual  rest  for  which  my  soul  hungers  !" 
Irene  prayed  passionately,  and  with  bitter 
tears — but  all  the  time,  reason  was  whisper- 
ing in  answer  :  "  What  are  you  asking  ? 
you  know  that  you  are  praying  for  the  im- 
possible. Happiness  for  you  can  take  only 
one  form,  that  of  love,  love,  love,  that  love 
of  which  you  have  been  dreaming  all  your 
life !  But  think  a  little — how  is  that  possible 
at  your  age  ?  Love  is  nature's  method  of 
continuing  our  race.  That  is  why  young 
girls  are  gifted  with  such  attractions  for  young 
men.  At  your  age,  to  have  children  is  im- 
possible— that  is  why  beauty  has  been  taken 
from  you,  and  men  pass  you  by  with  indiffer- 
ence. You  ask  for  spiritual  rest,  but  that  is 
only  attainable  by  people  who  have  fulfilled 
the  duties  imposed  on  them  by  nature. 
You  were  born  to  be  a  wife  and  a  mother — 
Where  is  your  husband  ?  Where  are  you 


128  THE  EMIGRANT 

children  ?  Where  is  your  family  ?  God 
created  the  world  on  a  foundation  of  logical 
laws,  and,  however  passionately  you  may 
pray,  He  cannot  change  these  laws." 

Irene  arose  in  despair.  Oh  !  that  accursed 
helpless  logic,  that  kills  all  prayer  and 
destroys  all  hope ! 

Time  passed,  and  Irene's  nervousness 
increased  day  by  day.  Sermons,  church 
services,  her  disputes  with  Gzhatski,  all  this 
alike  irritated  and  enervated  her.  Pere 
Etienne  observed  the  poor  woman  with  real 
pity,  but  could  devise  no  means  of  comforting 
or  helping  her.  Happening  on  one  occasion 
to  mention  a  famous  convent  at  Assisi,  which 
he  thought  Irene  might  some  day  do  well  to 
visit  with  the  object  of  retreat  and  prayer, 
she  caught  at  the  idea.  On  the  following 
day,  strictly  forbidding  the  porter  at  the 
pension  to  disclose  her  new  address  to  any- 
one, and  without  saying  good-bye  to  Gzhatski, 
she  left  Rome. 


IX 

ON  her  arrival  at  Assisi,  Irene  immediately 
felt  a  little  calmer  than  she  had  done  in  Rome. 
She  had  often  noticed  that  when  staying  in 
mountainous  districts  her  nerves  grew  quieter, 
and  she  felt,  for  the  time  being,  less  depressed. 
She  loved  the  scent  of  the  fresh  mountain  air, 
and  it  seemed  to  her,  under  its  influence,  as 
though,  after  all,  life  might  still  have  in  store 
for  her  many  happy  hours.  An  old  doctor 
who  had  once  treated  her  in  Paris  had  called 
her  in  fun  "la  femme  des  montagnes"- 
perhaps,  indeed,  she  should  have  lived  always 
at  high  altitudes. 

Assisi,  in  addition,  was  a  delightful  place. 
From  the  hills  among  which  the  little  town 
with  its  famous  monastery  nestled,  there  was 
a  glorious  view  over  an  immense  plain,  dotted 
with  houses,  churches,  gardens,  and  villages. 

129  9 


130  THE  EMIGRANT 

In  the  distance  rose  the  peaks  of  the  Apen- 
nines. 

The  impression  of  this  view  was  rendered 
all  the  more  enchanting  by  that  wonderful 
colouring,  so  well  known  to  all  who  have 
visited  Umbria  or  Tuscany  in  the  spring. 
The  mountains  were  nearly  always  wreathed 
in  an  azure  mist ;  the  shadows  were  deep 
blue,  little  white  cloudlets  floated  in  the 
turquoise  sky ;  the  valley  was  green  under 
its  carpet  of  velvet  grass,  powdered  already 
with  daisies  ;  the  fruit-trees  in  the  orchards 
were  covered  with  a  wealth  of  pink  and  white 
blossom.  Such  landscapes  can  be  seen  only 
in  the  pictures  of  the  Italian  old  masters,  for 
they  alone,  of  all  painters,  have  possessed 
the  gift  of  reproducing  all  the  softness  and 
harmony  of  their  native  colouring. 

Assisi  has,  to  this  day,  preserved  its  char- 
acter of  a  mediaeval  Borgo,  and  has  probably 
changed  but  little  since  the  days  of  St.  Francis. 
An  old  ruined  fortress  crowns  the  higher  of 
a  group  of  hills,  and  from  this  point  run  in 
all  directions  narrow,  ill-paved  little  streets, 
illuminated  at  night,  as  in  old  times,  by  feeble 


THE  EMIGRANT  131 

lanterns  hanging  on  wires  stretched  across 
the  roadway.  Nobody  seems  to  live  in  the 
monotonous,  grey  stone  houses  with  eternally 
closed  shutters ;  nobody  ever  seems  to  walk 
in  the  deserted  streets  and  dark  alleys.  Only 
an  occasional  donkey  tied  to  a  wall  stands 
meditatively  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
from  time  to  time  moves  his  long  ears  as 
a  sign  of  life.  Now  and  then  there  float 
across  the  air  from  some  cellar  the  beat  of 
a  carpenter's  hammer,  and  the  subdued  tones 
of  his  voice,  singing  about  the  "  faithless 
Fiametta."  Life  seems  to  have  stopped  at 
the  twelfth  century,  since  when  everything 
has  lain  still  in  an  enchanted  sleep.  Even 
the  numerous  tourists  do  not  succeed  in 
awakening  the  slumbering  town.  The  in- 
habitants are  mostly  monks  and  nuns,  with 
a  scattering  of  Polish  Catholics,  and  English 
old  maids,  who  come  to  kneel  at  the  shrine 
of  St.  Francis. 

Irene  set  herself  zealously  to  visit  all  the 
holy  places.  First,  she  descended  into  the 
valley,  to  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  dei 
Angeli.  It  had  once  stood  in  the  heart  of 


i32  THE  EMIGRANT 

a  dreaming  forest,  where,  in  the  fourth  century, 
some  monks  had  built  a  tiny  chapel,  round 
which,  partly  in  cells,  partly  in  caves,  the 
brotherhood  had  settled.  In  this  primitive 
little  settlement,  St.  Francis  lived  and  prayed 
and  died.  Later  on  his  remains  were  removed 
and  buried  in  the  new  and  magnificent  fortress- 
like  Franciscan  Monastery,  whose  white  walls 
and  towers  now  shine  dazzlingly  in  the  sun. 
The  old  forest  has  long  since  disappeared, 
and  the  touching  little  chapel  is  almost  lost 
in  the  centre  of  the  magnificent  temple  built 
around  it.  Monks  show  visitors  round  the 
monastery,  pointing  out  the  cell  in  which  St. 
Francis  died,  the  grotto  in  which  he  slept, 
and  the  little  garden  where  grew  the  roses 
without  thorns,  that  God  had  sent  him  as 
a  special  grace. 

Irene  went  also  to  do  homage  to  the  body 
of  St.  Clara,  who,  influenced  by  the  teaching 
of  St.  Francis,  left  the  world,  her  family  and 
friends,  retired  into  a  convent,  and  founded 
the  Order  of  the  Clarissians.  St.  Clara,  too, 
passed  her  life  in  the  modest  little  convent  of 
St.  Damian,  and  it  was  only  after  her  death 


THE  EMIGRANT  133 

that  her  body  was  transferred  to  the  gorgeous 
Church  of  the  New  Convent,  where,  in  a 
niche,  enclosed  in  a  glass  coffin,  it  rests  in 
nun's  attire,  and  with  a  capuchin  drawn  over 
the  blackened  features. 

Most  of  all,  however,  Irene  enjoyed  her 
excursion  to  Carceri,  the  distant  hermitage 
in  a  mountain  cave,  where  St.  Francis  had 
often  prayed  and  fasted.  She  ordered  a 
carriage  a  day  in  advance,  and,  at  the 
appointed  hour,  Giuseppe,  a  handsome 
young  Umbrian,  drove  up  to  the  door  of 
the  hotel,  raised  his  hat,  and  smiled 
caressingly  to  the  waiting  Irene.  They 
traversed  the  entire  town  at  a  walking  pace, 
on  account  of  the  steep,  narrow  streets,  and 
this  slow  drive  was  a  sort  of  triumphal  pro- 
gress for  young  Giuseppe.  He  seemed  to 
be  on  a  friendly  footing  with  the  whole  place  ; 
every  man  they  met  on  their  way  turned  and 
walked  for  a  while  beside  the  carriage,  his 
hand  on  the  shaft,  and  conversing  animatedly 
with  Giuseppe.  They  all  emphatically  per- 
suaded him  to  come,  at  some  particular  time 
and  for  some  particular  reason,  to  the  Piazza. 


134  THE  EMIGRANT 

Nuova,  and  he  repeatedly  swore  by  all  the 
saints  to  keep  the  appointment. 

At  last  they  passed  through  the  old  fortress 
gates,  and  Giuseppe  drove  up  to  a  small  house, 
from  the  window  of  which  peeped  a  pretty, 
sunburnt,  smiling  little  face.  Giuseppe 
jumped  from  his  box,  and  leaving  Irene  at 
the  mercy  of  the  scorching  Italian  sun,  dis- 
appeared into  the  house.  Time  passed  ;  the 
young  horse,  peacefully  regaling  itself  on 
fresh  grass,  was  certainly  in  no  hurry  to 
proceed,  and  Giuseppe  stayed  away  so  long 
that  Irene  grew  seriously  angry.  At  last  he 
appeared  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  announced 
that  the  bullocks  would  be  brought  round  in 
a  moment. 

"  The  bullocks !"  exclaimed  Irene  ;  "  but 
why  do  we  want  bullocks  ?" 

"  How  should  we  do  without  them  ?"  he 
retorted.  "  We  are  going  into  the  moun- 
tains. A  horse  cannot  make  that  journey 
alone.  We  must  have  two  bullocks." 

Irene  waited  with  some  curiosity.  In 
about  ten  minutes  a  middle-aged  woman, 
probably  the  mother  of  the  pretty  sunburnt 


THE  EMIGRANT  135 

girl,  appeared,  leading  by  a  rope  two 
enormous,  splendid,  grey  bullocks,  with 
immense  horns.  They  were  evidently  per- 
fectly tame,  and  the  woman,  placing  them  in 
front  of  the  horse,  tied  them  to  the  carriage. 
Giuseppe  helped  solely  with  advice,  exchang- 
ing playful  glances  the  while  with  the  pretty 
daughter,  who  was  hopping  about  near  him 
on  one  foot,  the  other  foot,  evidently  wounded, 
being  tied  up  with  a  white  rag. 

After  much  delay  the  procession  started. 
The  road  was  indeed  appalling !  A  narrow, 
steep,  stony  mountain  path,  over  which  no 
man  in  his  senses  would  ever  dream  of  driving 
a  carriage.  But  what  will  not  an  Italian  do 
when  there  is  a  chance  of  earning  a  few  lire  ? 

In  front,  leading  the  bullocks,  walked 
the  woman  with  a  shawl  pushed  well  down 
over  her  forehead.  She  looked  sufficiently 
modest  and  respectful,  and  was  also  suffi- 
ciently careless  and  untidy,  to  remind  one  of 
a  Russian  peasant  woman.  The  thin  useless 
little  ropes  she  had  brought  broke  every 
minute,  the  ends  falling  and  getting  entangled 
in  the  animals'  feet.  Giuseppe  was  furious, 


136  THE  EMIGRANT 

constantly  jumped  off  the  box,  and  bitterly 
reproached  the  poor  woman. 

At  last  the  bullocks  were  unharnessed,  the 
relieved  horse  trotted  gaily  along  a  wider 
and  much  smoother  road,  and  Irene  thought 
that  her  troubles  were  over.  Alas,  however  I 
At  a  turn  of  the  way  appeared  a  peasant 
waiting  with  two  other  bullocks  (white  ones 
this  time),  and  the  same  story  began  all  over 
again.  The  road  grew  always  worse  and 
more  dangerous,  and  Irene  hardly  knew 
whether  to  be  more  frightened  or  delighted 
with  the  wonderful  view  that  greeted  her 
gaze.  Assisi,  with  its  stone  walls  and  towers, 
lay  spread  out  before  her  like  a  fairy-fortress, 
with  a  background  of  blue  hills,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  frame  of  grey-green  olive-trees 
and  dark  cypresses.  In  the  foreground,  like 
carpets  flung  down  at  random,  gleamed  bril- 
liant patches  of  emerald  grass — the  whole 
picture,  indeed,  was  so  fresh,  so  lovely,  so 
poetical,  that  it  might  have  been  torn  from  a 
masterpiece  by  Botticelli. 

At  last  the  bullocks  turned  into  a  cavern- 
like  opening  among  the  rocks,   from  which 


THE  EMIGRANT  137 

issued  a  whiff  of  cold  air.  They  had  reached 
the  entrance  to  the  monastery,  and  Irene 
alighted  and  followed  the  path  between  two 
stone  walls.  A  deathlike  silence  surrounded 
her.  The  sun  caressed  the  as  yet  leafless  old 
trees,  birds  sang,  the  path  grew  always  nar- 
rower, and  at  last  the  old  gates  barred  the  way. 
Irene  rang  the  bell.  A  decrepit  old  door- 
keeper, walking  with  difficulty,  led  her  into  a 
tiny  courtyard  with  a  stone  well  in  its  centre, 
and  passed  her  on  to  a  young  Franciscan, 
just  on  the  point  of  acting  as  guide  to  an 
Englishwoman  who  had  come  from  Assisi  on 
foot. 

The  tiny  retreat  was  arranged  partly  in 
natural  grottos  and  partly  in  little  cave-cells, 
hewn  out  of  the  rocks.  The  little  staircases 
and  doors  were  so  narrow  and  low  that  one 
could  nowhere  stand  upright.  Here,  in  the 
twelfth  century,  lived,  at  times,  St.  Francis, 
and  la  sua  compagnia ;  then,  later  on,  St. 
Bernard  of  Siena,  and  many  other  saints. 
The  poetic  stillness  of  the  place,  and  its 
sacred  associations,  had  attracted  them,  and 
they  had  jealously  guarded  the  few  small 


138  THE  EMIGRANT 

relics  of  St.  Francis  that  had  been  left  there 
— a  tiny  narrow  pillow,  a  little  box  for  the 
Holy  Sacrament,  and  a  cross. 

The  young  Franciscan  explained  to  the 
two  visitors  the  arrangement  and  disposition 
of  the  settlement.  He  showed  them  the  sort 
of  things  that  are  always  shown  in  all  monas- 
teries ;  an  old,  faded  sacred  image,  that  was 
superstitiously  supposed  to  have  on  one  occa- 
sion spoken  to  some  nun,  and  a  miraculous 
crucifix,  carved  from  some  specially  sacred 
wood.  Lowering  his  voice,  the  monk  added 
that  an  influential  cardinal  had  once  taken 
this  crucifix  away  to  his  splendid  chapel  in 
Rome,  but  that  during  the  very  first  night 
after  its  arrival  there  it  had  disappeared,  and 
returned  miraculously  to  its  old  place.  He 
showed  them  also  the  precipice  into  which 
St.  Francis  had  flung  the  devil  who  had 
come  to  tempt  him  (the  latter  had  been 
smashed  to  pieces  on  the  stones  below,  and 
had  never  again  returned  to  the  settlement), 
and  the  mountain-stream,  whose  noisy  rush 
had  disturbed  the  saint's  meditations,  and 
whose  voice  he  had  silenced  for  ever. 


THE  EMIGRANT  139 

Irene  was  specially  touched  by  the  little 
platform  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  from 
which,  according  to  tradition,  St.  Francis  had 
preached  sermons  to  the  birds.  How  beauti- 
ful, how  poetic  was  this  legend  !  Having 
withdrawn  himself  from  human  companion- 
ship, far  away  from  men  who  in  their  pride 
imagine  themselves  to  be  superior  beings, 
specially  created,  made  of  special  clay,  St. 
Francis  had  humbled  himself  before  God's 
greatness,  and  had  understood  that  birds  were 
his  dear,  innocent  brothers.  He  longed  to 
share  with  them  the  rapture  that  filled  his  soul, 
and  the  birds,  understanding  this  rapture,  joy- 
fully sang  and  twittered  in  answer.  Man  was 
not  made  for  solitude — and  the  hermit,  having 
isolated  himself  in  the  desert,  found  the  way 
to  salvation  in  the  friendship  of  tame  birds 
and  beasts.  .  .  . 

Having  once  seen  all  the  sights  of  Assisi, 
Irene  seldom  ventured  out  of  doors.  She 
spent  most  of  her  time  on  the  little  terrace 
of  the  hotel,  admiring  the  view  that  was 
spread  out  before  her,  and  growing,  day  by 
day,  more  attached  to  it.  What  a  wealth, 


1 40  THE  EMIGRANT 

indeed,  of  variety  and  beauty  was  to  be  found 
there !  At  seven  o'clock  each  morning  she 
opened  her  window  and  let  in  the  fresh,  fra- 
grant air.  The  whole  valley  then  seemed  to 
be  asleep,  wrapped  in  a  dewy  mist.  At  mid- 
day, however,  all  was  smiling  and  basking  in 
floods  of  brilliant  sunlight,  and  towards  five 
in  the  afternoon  the  sun,  like  a  great  ball  of 
fire,  disappeared  in  the  West,  the  sky  grew 
pale,  and  light-blue  shadows  gradually  began 
to  draw  their  veils  across  the  plain.  Even 
lovelier  still  was  the  night,  when  bright  stars 
trembled  like  diamonds  in  the  dark  sky,  and 
the  young  moon  shone  as  far  away,  as  coldly, 
and  as  indifferently  as  she  shines  in  the 
North  and  in  the  mountains.  The  whole 
great  valley  was  dotted  with  little  lights  ; 
the  neighbouring  town  of  Perugia  made  a 
sudden  splash  of  brightness,  and  the  white 
roads  wound  about  mysteriously  among  the 
dark  fields.  The  silence  was  indescribable  ; 
not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard,  except,  from 
time  to  time,  the  distant  barking  of  a  dog,  or 
the  throb  of  a  far-off,  passing  train. 

Irene  began  to  feel  the  vague  weariness  of 


THE  EMIGRANT  141 

spring-time.  She  had  experienced  so  much  of 
late,  and  had  received  so  many  new  impres- 
sions, that  her  mind  needed  rest.  She  did 
not  want  to  think  about  anything.  Her 
thoughts  moved  lazily ;  she  was  placidly 
happy  on  the  little  terrace,  with  its  palms  and 
its  flowers  ;  she  had  no  wish  to  go  anywhere, 
she  wanted  only  to  repose  in  her  com- 
fortable wicker  sofa-chair,  and  delight  in 
nature. 

She  often  thought  of  Gzhatski,  but  always 
unwillingly,  even  with  displeasure. 

"  Why  did  I  ever  meet  that  man  ?"  she 
thought  resentfully.  "  Until  he  came,  every- 
thing went  well !"  But  for  him,  she  would 
already  have  taken  the  veil,  and  would  pro- 
bably have  found  happiness.  Why  had  she 
ever  paid  attention  to  the  words  of  a  mere 
passer-by,  who  had  occupied  himself  with  her 
affairs  simply  because  he  had  nothing  else  to 
do  ?  Very  soon  he  would  return  to  his  Russia, 
where  he  had  so  many  interests  and  so  many 
friends,  and  would  never  even  remember 
Irene.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  stay  at 
Assisi  until  after  he  had  left  Rome. 


142  THE  EMIGRANT 

Having  arrived  at  this  decision,  Irene  wrote 
to  Pere  Etienne,  telling  him  that  the  moun- 
tain air  was  agreeing  with  her  splendidly,  and 
that  she  would  not  return  to  Rome  till  Easter. 
She  posted  her  letter,  and  feeling  pleased  and 
relieved,  went  for  a  stroll  in  the  balmy  even- 
ing air.  What  was  her  astonishment  and 
annoyance  when,  on  her  return,  she  found 
Gzhatski  in  the  entrance-hall  of  the  hotel, 
eagerly  questioning  the  proprietor  about 
something.  Her  face  expressed  such  frank 
displeasure,  that  Gzhatski  felt  provoked. 

"  What  an  unexpected  meeting  ! "  he  said 
as  naturally  as  possible,  pretending,  somewhat 
unsuccessfully,  to  be  much  astonished.  "  I 
was  told  you  had  taken  the  veil  in  one  of  the 
Roman  convents." 

"Not  yet,"  smiled  Irene,  "but  it  is  as  a 
preparation  for  that  event  that  I  am  recuper- 
ating here  in  the  mountain  air." 

"  Yes,  the  air  is  lovely,"  agreed  Gzhatski, 
hurriedly.  "  And  the  views  are  beautiful.  I 
hardly  expected  to  find  all  this  in  the  Apen- 
nines." 

Irene  took  it  upon  herself  to  show  Gzhatski 


THE  EMIGRANT  143 

all  the  sights  of  Assisi.  Sergei  Grigorievitch 
praised  everything,  was  delighted  with  all  he 
saw,  was  respectful  to  the  monks  who  acted 
as  guides  in  the  churches  and  monasteries, 
and  bought  a  whole  collection  of  various 
Catholic  souvenirs. 

"  Can  you  guess  what  I  have  found  to 
amuse  me  in  Rome  ?"  he  asked  Irene  one 
day  at  dinner.  "  I  go  to  the  churches  and 
listen  to  the  Catechism  lessons.  I  assure  you 
it  is  most  interesting.  On  one  side  of  the 
church  sits  a  nun,  surrounded  by  little  girls, 
and  on  the  other,  a  monk,  with  a  class  of  little 
boys,  to  whom  he  addresses  questions,  in  turn. 
If  you  could  only  see  what  lovely  little  faces 
they  have  !  These  same  Italians,  that  are  so 
horrid  when  they  grow  up,  are,  at  the  age  of 
eight  or  ten,  exactly  like  Raphael's  cherubs. 
Of  course,  they  don't  understand  anything 
yet  about  the  Catechism.  What  is  the  use  of 
a  catechism  when  the  little  legs  of  the  pupils 
run  all  by  themselves,  so  that  there  is  no 
stopping  them  ?  The  greater  part  of  the 
lesson  consists,  for  the  '  Pater,'  in  persuading 
his  listeners  to  sit  still,  not  to  swing  on  their 


i44  THE  EMIGRANT 

chairs,  not  to  jump  up,  not  to  run  about  the 
church,  and  not  to  fight. 

"It  is  amusing,  too,  to  listen  to  their  con- 
versations with  their  teacher.  I  remember 
once,  for  instance,  he  asked  one  such  little 
Cupid  the  number  of  the  Sacraments,  or  some- 
thing like  that.  The  answer  had  to  be  five. 
The  young  rascal  thought  for  a  moment,  then 
smiled  roguishly,  spread  out  all  the  five  fin- 
gers of  his  right  hand,  and,  silently,  with  a 
triumphant  air,  held  them  to  the  Pater's  nose. 
Do  you  imagine  the  priest  was  offended  at 
this  lack  of  respect  ?  Not  in  the  least !  He 
is  an  Italian  himself,  and  teaches  his  Cate- 
chism more  by  means  of  gestures  than  words. 
Oh !  what  amusing  people !  When  I  look  at 
those  children,  I  feel  a  great  heartache  because 
I  have  not  a  little  sonlet  like  that  of  my 
own !" 

"  But  why  do  you  not  get  married,  if  you 
so  much  want  to  have  children  ?" 

"  Get  married  ?  That  is  not  so  easy.  I 
will  tell  you  a  conversation  I  once  had  on  the 
subject  with  my  small  nephew  Seryozha.  He 
is  my  godson,  and  will  probably  be  my  heir. 


THE  EMIGRANT  145 

We  are  enormous  friends.  When  I  go  to  stay 
In  the  country  with  his  mother,  my  cousin, 
Seryozha  never  leaves  me  for  a  moment,  and 
if  only  you  could  hear  our  conversations !  He 
has  the  straightforward,  logical,  fearless  intel- 
ligence of  most  small  boys  of  his  age.  And 
so,  on  one  occasion,  he  announced  to  me  that 
as  soon  as  ever  he  grows  up,  he  will  get  mar- 
ried, just  because  he  wants  to  have  little 
children,  whom  he  likes.  '  There  is  only  one 
trouble,'  he  added,  very  seriously,  *  I  shall 
have  to  live  all  the  time  with  my  wife  ;  there 
is  no  escape.'  He  said  it  so  well,  that  I  gave 
him  a  hearty  kiss.  You  see,  although  I  am 
forty,  and  Seryozha  is  only  eight,  he  explained 
to  me  quite  clearly  why  I  do  not  marry." 

"  The  poor  wife!"  laughed  Irene. 

On  the  following  day,  Gzhatski  left  Assisi. 
Just  as  he  was  getting  into  the  cab  to  go  to 
the  station,  he  suddenly  turned  to  Irene,  who 
was  there  to  say  good-bye,  and  exclaimed : 

"  By  the  way,  I  had  quite  forgotten.  I 
brought  you  a  present  from  Rome.  Please 
accept  it,"  and  he  took  a  book  from  his 
pocket,  and  handed  it  to  her. 

IO 


146  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  What  is  it?"  stammered  Irene  vaguely. 

"  It  is  a  Life  of  St.  Amulfia.  Like  you,  she 
found  that  her  vocation  was  to  enter  a  con- 
vent. I  thought  that,  as  a  future  nun,  it 
might  be  interesting  and  useful  to  you  to- 
know  something  of  her  convent  life.' 

Irene  accepted  this  gift  somewhat  mistrust- 
fully. It  seemed  suspicious,  especially  as 
Gzhatski  obstinately  avoided  meeting  her 
glance,  while  an  ill-concealed  smile  trembled 
on  his  lips. 

Irene  went  back  to  her  favourite  terrace, 
and  for  a  long  time  watched  the  cab  going 
down  the  hill,  raising  a  cloud  of  dust.  A 
suspicion  arose  in  her  heart,  that  Gzhatski 
had  come  to  Assisi  exclusively  with  the  pur- 
pose of  giving  her  this  book,  and  she  began 
to  read  it  with  great  interest. 


X 

SAINT  AMULFIA  lived  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. Her  parents  were  French  petits  bour- 
geois, uneducated,  poor,  almost  peasants. 
From  her  earliest  childhood,  she  was  greatly 
attracted  by  convent  life,  and  always  nursed 
the  dream  of  one  day  becoming  a  nun.  Her 
relations  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  this  pro- 
ject, and  wished  her  to  marry.  Amulfia,  how- 
ever, found  all  men  repulsive,  and  the  very 
thought  of  marriage  filled  her  with  horror 
and  disgust.  For  a  long  time,  lacking  the 
dower  without  which  no  one  is  accepted  in 
Catholic  convents,  she  was  unable  to  join  the 
order  she  had  chosen.  At  last,  however,  after 
the  death  of  her  parents,  their  small  capital 
being  divided  among  the  children,  she  took 
her  portion  to  the  convent,  and  was  received 
as  a  novice. 


148  THE  EMIGRANT 

From  the  very  first  days  of  her  entry,  she 
astonished  all  the  nuns  by  her  humility,  and 
the  fervency  of  her  prayers.  At  night,  in 
her  cell,  she  chastised  herself  with  ropes,  ran 
needles  into  her  fingers,  and  covered  herself 
with  wounds.  As  always  happens  when  the 
organism  is  weakened  by  torture  and  priva- 
tion and  a  constant  state  of  nervous  exalta- 
tion, she  began  to  see  visions.  Christ 
appeared  to  her,  and  she  spoke  with  Him,  as 
with  her  heavenly  bridegroom,  who  claimed 
her  as  exclusively  His  own,  and  forbade  her 
to  continue  even  her  friendly  relations  with  a 
good  and  kind  young  nun  for  whom  she  had 
felt  a  special  sympathy  on  entering  the  con- 
vent. "  Si  elle  ne  se  retirait  pas  des  crea- 
tures," threatened  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom, 
"  II  saurait  se  retirer  d'elle,"  and  the  saint 
obeyed,  and  turned  away  from  her  friend. 

These  visions  were  known  to  the  whole 
convent,  but  did  not  astonish  anybody.  The 
other  nuns  also  held  converse  with  God,  and 
sometimes  on  the  most  trifling  subjects. 
For  instance,  there  was  one  who  greatly  dis- 
liked cheese  which,  for  this  very  reason,  her 


THE  EMIGRANT  149 

superior  had  once  ordered  her  to  eat,  as  a 
penance.  So  she  went  to  church,  threw  her- 
self on  her  knees  before  the  Crucifix,  and 
prayed  for  five  hours,  with  tears  and  sobs, 
for  strength  to  eat  her  little  piece  of  cheese. 
At  last,  she  heard  a  voice,  ordering  her  to 
arise,  and  make  yet  one  more  effort.  She 
obeyed,  and  the  miracle  was  accomplished  : 
although  with  shudders  of  disgust,  she  yet 
succeeded  in  swallowing  the  cheese. 

Not  only  God,  however,  but  also  Satan 
played  a  great  part  in  the  lives  of  the  nuns. 
On  one  occasion,  for  instance,  an  absent- 
minded  novice  fell  down  the  stairs,  but  man- 
aged not  to  hurt  herself.  She  told  of  her 
experience  in  the  following  words  :  "  Satan 
pushed  me  at  the  top,  but  a  guardian  angel 
was  waiting  at  the  bottom,  and  caught  me 
in  his  arms." 

There  was  only  one  nun  in  the  convent 
who  saw  no  visions.  This  was  Sister  Jeanne, 
the  matron  of  the  hospital,  a  busy,  active, 
energetic  woman,  devoted  to  the  sick  who 
were  brought  to  the  hospital  from  the  village. 
Saint  Amulfia's  biographer  spoke  of  this 


1 50  THE  EMIGRANT 

sister  with  great  severity.  "  She  so  com- 
pletely exhausted  her  charity  in  favour  of 
the  sick  whom  she  tended,"  he  said,  "that 
she  had  none  left  for  the  sisters  who  were 
her  subordinates  in  this  work." 

Having  received  Saint  Amulfia  as  assistant 
nurse,  Sister  Jeanne  constantly  scolded  her 
for  her  clumsy  carelessness.  Saint  Amulfia,  in- 
deed, had  spent  so  great  a  part  of  her  time  in 
conversation  either  with  God  or  with  Satan, 
and  had  grown  so  absent-minded,  that  she 
was  completely  incapable  of  giving  a  patient 
a  spoonful  of  medicine,  or  a  cup  of  beef-tea, 
without  spilling  them  all  over  the  bed ! 

At  last,  from  a  novice,  Saint  Amulfia 
became  a  full-blown  nun,  and  from  this  time 
onward  called  Christ  her  "  Celestial  Hus- 
band." The  visions  continued,  and  the  con- 
versations became  so  grotesque  that  Irene, 
on  reading  them,  sometimes  quite  involun- 
tarily burst  into  peals  of  laughter.  She 
always,  however,  immediately  and  reproach- 
fully stopped  herself,  thinking  in  horror  : 
"  How  dare  I  ?  What  am  I  doing  ?  She 
was  a  Saint  /" 


THE  EMIGRANT  151 

With  every  page,  however,  Irene's  per- 
plexity grew.  What  if  there  were  similar 
saints  among  the  Soeurs  Mauve  ?  What  if 
(God  forbid !)  she  herself  should  become  a 
saint  ?  Irene  tried  to  console  herself  with 
the  thought  that  all  this  had  taken  place  in 
the  seventeenth  century,  in  days  of  ignorance 
and  mental  darkness — on  the  other  hand, 
however,  she  remembered  that  that  had  been 
the  century  of  Corneille,  Moliere,  Racine, 
the  brilliant  Madame  de  S^vigne,  the  golden 
age,  indeed,  of  French  literature.  Beyond 
this,  the  entire  arrangement  of  life  in  a  Catho- 
lic Convent  was  new  to  her,  and  surprised 
her  exceedingly.  She  had  imagined  a  refuge 
for  women  who  had  been  disappointed  in 
life,  and  who  longed  for  a  quiet  harbour 
where  they  would  be  sheltered  from  the 
storms  of  the  world,  and  where,  safely 
anchored  at  last,  they  could  end  their  days  in 
holiness  and  prayer.  She  had  imagined  the 
relations  of  the  nuns  to  each  other,  as  polite 
and  friendly,  much  like  those  of  well-bred 
people  staying  in  the  same  hotel,  and  meeting 
each  other  every  day  at  dinner.  In  reality 


152  THE  EMIGRANT 

there  appeared  to  be  a  severe  regime,  by 
which  she,  Irene,  would  be  obliged  to  submit 
in  every  way  to  the  will  of  her  Superior,  who 
might  be  a  trivial-minded,  common  person, 
capable  of  forcing  her  subordinates  to  spend 
their  time  in  performing  such  "sacrifices  "  or 
"  great  deeds  "  as  eating  something  they  did 
not  like,  or  occupying  themselves  with  some- 
thing useless  that  could  not  interest  them. 

Irene  shuddered  at  her  own  carelessness. 
Having  made  no  enquiries  whatever,  she  had 
painted  for  herself  an  imaginary  romantic 
picture,  and  had  been  on  the  point  of 
sacrificing  in  its  favour  the  personal  liberty 
she  had  always  enjoyed.  What,  if  on 
closer  acquaintance,  the  happiness  of  that  un- 
known, much-dreamt-of  convent  life  proved 
to  be  an  illusion  ?  What  if  she  should 
afterwards  wish  to  escape  from  it,  and  it 
were  too  late,  no  return  being  possible  ? 
There  came  back  to  Irene's  recollection  long- 
forgotten  stories  of  unloved  wives  or  un- 
wanted daughters,  who  had  been  hidden 
away  in  Catholic  convents,  and  whom  no  one 
had  afterwards  succeeded  in  saving  or  even 


THE  EMIGRANT  153 

tracing.  For  that  matter,  thought  Irene, 
there  was  not  even,  in  her  case,  anyone  who 
would  trouble  about  trying  to  trace  her — so 
terribly  alone  was  she  in  the  world  !  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  she  shuddered  with  sheer 
fright,  and,  together  with  this  sudden  fear,  the 
thought  of  Gzhatski  as  her  protector  flashed 
through  her  mind. 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  man  who  will  not  let  any 
harm  come  to  me  !"  she  thought.  "  He  is  of 
the  kind  that  would  find  and  save  his  friends, 
if  they  were  at  the  end  of  the  earth,  or  at 
the-bottom  of  the  sea  !" 

Irene  threw  down  the  book  that  had  so 
disturbed  her  peace  of  mind,  but  her  restless- 
ness, nevertheless,  grew.  Assisi  lost  its 
charm  for  her,  and  a  sudden  spell  of  bad 
weather  offering  itself  as  an  excuse,  she 
hurried  her  departure,  and  returned  to  Rome. 


XI 

As  soon  as  she  arrived  in  Rome,  Irene  sent 
for  Gzhatski. 

"  Are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself  ?"  she 
asked  him  reproachfully,  "  for  having  given 
me  such  a  horrible  book  ?  What  was  your 
object  ?  Of  what  benefit  could  such  a  book 
be  to  anybody  ?" 

"  I  only  wanted  to  open  your  eyes  to  con- 
vent life,"  he  answered,  "  you  seemed  to 
know  nothing  but  its  outer,  or  decorative 
side,  so  I  thought  I  would  show  you  what  is 
hidden  under  that  charming  exterior." 

"  But  Saint  Amulfia  lived  in  the  seven- 
teenth century !  Surely  everything  has 
changed  since  then  ?"  protested  Irene  weakly. 

"Not  in  convents!"  replied  Gzhatski  with 
emphasis.  "  Nothing  can  ever  change  where 
the  very  fundamental  conditions  are  abnor- 


THE  EMIGRANT  155 

mal.  Human  beings  were  created  to  live  in 
the  world,  to  work  together,  to  be  happy 
together,  and  thankfully  to  accept  and  enjoy 
all  that  life  can  give.  Only  in  complying 
with  these  conditions  can  they  retain  their 
moral  and  mental  equilibrium.  The  moment 
they  leave  the  world  and  become  possessed 
by  some  monomania,  such  as  the  saving  of 
their  own  souls,  they  are  unbalanced,  and 
there  soon  follow  all  the  hallucinations, 
visions,  temptations  of  the  devil,  and  what 
not,  so  common  in  convents.  Convents  are 
now  being  closed  in  France,  not,  as  is  popu- 
larly supposed,  through  the  influence  of  Free- 
masons, but  by  science  and  enlightenment, 
two  forces  that  always  hold  high  their  torch 
in  France,  and  always  have  the  last  word. 
No  one  doubts  that  in  their  time  convents 
were  of  great  use  to  humanity.  With  the 
exception  of  the  comparatively  rare  cases  in 
which  inexperienced  souls  were  forcibly  or 
artificially  lured  into  taking  the  veil  and  so 
ruining  their  healthy,  normal  natures,  most  of 
the  people  who  became  nuns  were  such  as 
felt  the  renunciation  of  normal  life  to  be 


156  THE  EMIGRANT 

their  vocation,  in  other  words,  entirely  un- 
balanced characters.  Convents,  therefore, 
rendered  an  enormous  service  to  society  by 
imprisoning  within  their  walls  erotic  and 
hysterical  women,  and  all  sorts  of  maniacs, 
whose  presence  in  the  world  might  have 
been  highly  detrimental  to  their  fellows. 
Whenever  some  sort  of  power  fell  accident- 
ally into  their  hands,  they  managed  to  do 
harm  even  after  having  renounced  life.  One 
need  only  take  the  one  great  instance  of  the 
Spanish  Inquisition,  and  of  all  the  subtle 
refinement  of  torture  in  which,  during  its 
sway,  the  cruel  voluptuousness  of  these 
diseased  natures  found  its  outlet. 

"  Science  tells  us  that  rest  and  silence  and 
a  regular  life,  free  from  all  disquieting  influ- 
ences, work  wonders  for  sufferers  from  nerv- 
ous diseases.  In  monasteries  and  convents, 
such  patients  were  not  only  kept,  but  they  also 
underwent  cures,  for  in  addition  to  everything 
else,  these  religious  institutions  were  generally 
situated  amid  the  loveliest  and  healthiest 
natural  surroundings,  and  almost  all  the 
modern  German  and  Swiss  sanatoria  and 


THE  EMIGRANT  157 

*  Rest  or  Air  Cure '  Establishments  have  been 
built  on  or  near  the  ruins  of  some  ancient 
monastery  or  convent.  The  founders  of  the 
latter  well  knew  with  what  kind  of  subjects 
they  would  have  to  deal,  and  what  exactly 
these  subjects  needed.  I  repeat :  Monas- 
teries and  convents  have  in  the  past  ren- 
dered humanity  a  great  service,  by  taking 
the  place  of  asylums  and  sanatoria  for 
mental  and  nervous  sufferers.  Now  that 
institutions  for  the  cure  or  care  of  such 
sufferers  abound  everywhere,  convents  have 
become  useless,  and  are  being  suppressed. 

"  In  Russia,  they  still  exist,  and  will  long 
continue  to  exist  and  be  needed,  because 
they  provide  for  our  peasantry  that  change 
and  relaxation  which  the  upper  classes  find 
in  their  travels  abroad.  A  certain  amount  of 
change  is  essential  to  all  human  beings,  but 
most  particularly  to  inhabitants  of  the  gloomy 
North,  with  its  cold  cheerless  climate. 
The  English,  for  instance,  have  long  ago 
realized  that  it  is  necessary  for  the  mainten- 
ance of  their  health  and  strength  to  travel  at 
least  once  a  year.  Whither  would  our  Rus- 


1 58  THE  EMIGRANT 

sian  peasant  and  his  hapless  *  old  woman  * 
betake  themselves,  if  there  existed  no  monas- 
tery where  one  can  go  for  a  '  prayer  week  ? 
For  them,  convents  represent  the  new 
places,  new  people,  new  impressions,  which 
are  so  necessary  for  jaded  nerves,  and  which 
have  such  a  reviving  influence  on  body  and 
soul.  Our  monasteries  are  perfectly  aware 
of  this,  and  willingly  receive,  feed,  and  main- 
tain pilgrim  visitors.  The  most  hospitable  of 
all  is,  perhaps,  the  Valamski  Monastery,  and 
our  silly  Petrograd  does  not  even  suspect 
how  much  of  its  moral  and  mental  good 
health  it  owes  to  this  institution.  While 
various  charitable  societies  are  only  just 
beginning  to  organize  picnics  and  excursions, 
the  Valamski  Brothers  have  long  had  their 
own  private  steamers,  which,  modestly  and 
without  any  advertisement  or  flourish  of 
trumpets,  bring  visitors  to  Valam,  at  a  fare 
cheap  enough  to  be  within  the  means  of  the 
most  limited  purse.  Once  there,  all  travellers 
are  received  alike  by  the  monks,  with  kind- 
ness and  courtesy,  are  regaled  with  simple, 
wholesome  food,  and  provided  with  distrac- 


THE  EMIGRANT  159 

tions  in  the  shape  of  rowing  and  sailing. 
How  many  delightful  impressions  have  been 
brought  back  from  these  excursions  by  the 
poor  of  Petrograd,  during  those  glorious 
summer  months,  when  all  nature  rejoices ! 
But  for  the  Valamski  Monastery,  many  a 
puny  Petrograd  slum  child  would  never  have 
known  how  beautiful  God's  world  is.  All 
honour  to  the  modest  brotherhood  of  Valam  ! 
These  are  true  Christians,  since  they  share 
with  others  God's  most  glorious  gift  to  man 
— nature ! 

"  Russian  monasteries  also  render  a  service 
to  the  people  by  their  beautiful  singing. 
The  desire  for  music  is  not,  as  many  people 
wrongly  suppose,  the  privilege  of  the  cul- 
tured circles.  There  are  indeed  many  clever 
and  well-educated  people  who  do  not  care 
about  music  at  all,  while  there  are  ignorant 
peasants  who  delight  in  it.  You  have  only 
to  go  to  the  big  Cathedral  of  the  Alexander- 
Nevsky  Lavra,  at  Christmas  or  Easter.  At 
no  concert  will  you  see  such  beaming, 
happy  faces.  The  people  will  stand  for  two 
or  three  hours,  forgetting  everything  in  the 


160  THE  EMIGRANT 

world  but  the  delight  of  the  soft  dulcet  tones 
of  the  choir. 

"  In  all  poor  countries,  where  general  cul- 
ture is  not  very  advanced,  monasteries  give  to 
the  masses  the  silence,  poetry  and  music,  for 
which  their  souls  unconsciously  yearn.  As 
soon,  however,  as  a  people  grows  prosperous, 
educates  itself  and  finds  its  own  distractions, 
the  need  for  convents  or  monasteries  dis- 
appears. Simple-minded  folk  imagine  that 
the  suppression  of  the  religious  orders  means 
the  decay  of  Christianity — but  they  forget  that 
monasteries  existed  in  India  and  in  China,  long 
before  the  birth  of  Christ.  Christianity  did 
not  invent  them,  but  the  monasteries  of  the 
time  gradually  adopted  the  new  faith.  Actu- 
ally, all  such  institutions  are  quite  contrary  to 
Christian  ideals,  for  Christ's  teaching,  above 
all  else,  enjoins  activity.  Much  more  in 
conformity  with  the  Gospel  are  the  modern 
religious  working  associations,  with  their 
hospitals,  schools,  and  refuges,  which  are 
springing  up  everywhere  now  in  place  of  the 
old  convents.  Their  introduction  into  modern 
life  is  perfectly  comprehensible.  In  addition 


THE  EMIGRANT  161 

to  the  nervous  wrecks,  there  were  also  some 
healthy  people  who  used  to  enter  convents ; 
people,  indeed,  whose  superior  spiritual 
health,  so  to  speak,  prompted  them  to  con- 
sider the  happiness  of  others,  before  their 
own.  Such  monks  and  nuns  as  these  were 
not  content  to  do  nothing  but  fast  and  pray, 
but  invented  occupations  for  themselves. 
Some  founded  schools  and  colleges,  others 
nursed  the  sick,  others  again  became  mis- 
sionaries in  foreign  lands.  They  wore  the 
prescribed  attire  of  their  orders,  but  in  all 
other  respects  they  lived  in  the  world  as 
before,  loving  and  helping  their  neighbours, 
and  sharing  the  interests  and  joys  and  sorrows 
of  their  fellow-creatures.  It  is  this  healthy 
class  of  monastics,  that  is  now,  after  the 
suppression  of  the  old  institutions,  hastening 
to  found  new  ones,  more  in  keeping  with  the 
needs  of  our  times.  Such  charitable  associa- 
tions have  sprung  up  in  large  numbers  also 
in  Russia — God  speed  them !  But  institu- 
tions of  that  kind  will  never  attract  people 
like  you,  Irene  Pavlovna!" 
"  Why  not  ?" 

ii 


1 62  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  Because  you  are  z'//,  and  your  illness 
makes  the  old  convents,  with  their  mysticism 
and  their  mysteries  and  their  sleeping  exist- 
ence somewhere  between  earth  and  heaven, 
far  more  attractive  to  you." 

"  But  what  is  this  disease  ?"  asked  Irene, 
with  a  mistrustful  smile. 

"The  disease  from  which  you  are  suffering 
is  disgust  for  all  activity  and  contempt  for  all 
mankind.  This  disease  usually  attacks  the 
children  or  grandchildren  of  writers,  scientists, 
artists,  sometimes  also  of  State  officials,  the 
kind  that  have  spent  all  their  lives  in  pouring 
over  State  archives  or  other  papers.  Their 
mental  overwork,  at  the  expense  of  physical 
strength,  leaves  indelible  traces,  and  has  to 
be  paid  for  by  their  children,  who  always 
have  morbid  desires  for  some  fantastic  exist- 
ence invented  by  their  own  imaginations,  and 
find  real  life  dull  and  colourless.  As  soon  as 
they  are  over  the  borders  of  childhood,  they 
begin,  like  ancient  Israel,  to  dispute  and 
struggle  with  God.  They  refuse  to  accept 
the  humanity  He  has  created,  with  all  its 
faults  and  failings  ;  they  invent  their  own  fan- 


THE  EMIGRANT  163 

ciful  heroes,  and  demand  of  God  that  He 
should  give  these  imaginary  creatures  life.  It 
is  principally  women  in  whom  this  morbid 
contempt  for  human  nature  manifests  itself. 
The  girl,  indeed,  is  rare  who  does  not,  on 
getting  married,  attempt  to  remodel  her  hus- 
band according  to  her  own  ideas.  She  tries 
to  turn  a  passionate  worlding  into  a  monk, 
prepares  to  metamorphose  a  pensive  lover  of 
solitude  into  a  brilliant  society  dandy,  or 
forces  a  pleasure-loving  social  lion  into  the 
narrow  circle  of  her  domestic  interests.  And 
the  poor  deluded  creature  never  for  a  moment 
doubts  the  success  of  her  efforts.  '  I  shall 
only  have  to  be  insistent,  and  to  give  him  no 
peace/  she  thinks, '  and  all  will  be  as  I  wish.' 

"  Some  women,  indeed,  shatter  their  happi- 
ness in  this  way,  and  to  the  end  of  their  lives 
never  realize  their  mistake.  Of  coure,  this 
ridiculous  feature  of  their  characters  proves 
the  profound  depths  of  ignorance  in  which 
women  are  still  groping,  in  spite  of  their 
superficial,  if  sometimes  apparently  brilliant^ 
intellectual  attainments.  Were  their  mental 
development  less  shallow,  they  would  under- 


164  THE  EMIGRANT 

stand  that  God  cannot  for  their  pleasure 
entirely  remodel  a  completed  creation.  This 
seems,  indeed,  a  very  simple  fact,  but  it  is 
surprising  how  few  women  can  grasp  it. 
Most  of  my  morbid  types  try  to  escape  from 
the  prose  of  life  by  means  of  operas,  novels, 
dreams,  and  in  this  way  they  only  broaden 
the  gulf  that  separates  them  from  their  more 
reasonable  fellow-creatures.  They  feel  that 
happiness  is  their  birthright,  and  they  tor- 
ment themselves  because  they  cannot  attain 
it.  Time  passes,  and  brings  disillusionment, 
since  the  world  refuses  to  conform  itself  to 
vain  fancies.  And  then  begins  the  quarrel 
with  God. 

"  '  Send  me  a  man  after  my  own  heart,'  cry 
the  poor  deluded  ones  to  the  Almighty,  often 
with  bitter  tears.  '  Then  I  shall  be  happy, 
will  believe  in  Thy  might,  and  will  bless  and 
praise  Thy  name.  I  despise  the  low,  sinful 
people  by  whom  I  am  surrounded,  and  I 
suffer  through  this  very  fact.  I  long  to  bow 
my  head  before  some  nobler  being,  some  man 
who  has  only  virtues,  and  to  whom  I  could 
all  my  life  look  up  in  adoration.' 


THE  EMIGRANT  165 

"  What  answer  can  God  give  to  such 
prayers,  however  sincere  and  agonized  they 
may  be  ?  They  remain  ungranted,  and  little 
by  little  they  turn  into  murmurs,  discontent, 
and  finally,  unbelief. 

" '  Were  there  a  God,'  think  these  unfor- 
tunates, with  a  burning  sense  of  injustice, 
'  He  would  pay  attention  to  my  sufferings. 
Once  He  remains  silent,  this  proves  that  He 
does  not  exist.' 

"  The  only  result  is  a  wrecked  life,  void  of 
happiness,  and  without  benefit  to  anybody. 

"  Such  diseased  characters  ought  to  be 
treated  and  cured  in  childhood.  Their  in- 
terest in  life  should  be  artificially  educated. 
Novels  and  operas  should  be  strictly  for- 
bidden. They  should  be  taught  history  and 
medical  science,  and  they  should  be  made  to 
work  in  hospitals,  in  order  to  overcome  that 
unnatural  disgust  for  mere  physical  life,  which 
is  one  of  their  chief  characteristics.  They 
should  be  trained  to  observe  their  surround- 
ings, even  to  express  in  writing  their  impres- 
sions of  people  with  whom  they  come  in 
contact,  and  to  make  logical  deductions  on 


1 66  THE  EMIGRANT 

the  subject  of  the  probable  futures  of  these 
people.  In  a  word,  to  attach  these  sick  crea- 
tures to  earth,  one  must  convince  them  that 
there  exists  nothing  so  interesting  as  humanity. 
Only  when  observation  and  interest  in  their 
fellow-creatures  becomes  a  habit,  will  they 
understand  the  object  of  life.  Instead  of  con- 
tempt, their  hearts  will  be  filled  with  profound 
pity.  It  is  themselves,  indeed,  that  one  cannot 
at  present  regard  without  pity,  these  hapless 
sufferers  from  a  deep-seated  moral  disease. 
Rancour,  greed,  envy,  voluptuousness,  cruelty, 
these  are  all  spiritual  ailments,  needing  special 
doctors  and  special  medicines." 

"But — "  stammered  Irene,  "these  are  sins, 
and  not  diseases.  You  are  preaching  some 
entirely  new  theory." 

"No;  it  only  seems  new  to  you,  but  it  is 
actually  as  old  as  the  hills.  Shakespeare 
already  described,  in  Othello,  the  symptoms  of 
the  disease  of  jealousy,  and  in  Hamlet,  again,  he 
showed  us  a  soul  paralyzed  by  excessive  self- 
analysis.  Read  the  monologue  of  Pouschkin's 
'  Avaricious  Knight,'  and  you  will  agree  that 
this  is  the  monologue  of  a  madman.  Compare 


THE  EMIGRANT  167 

him  with  Moliere's  '  Miser,'  and  you  will  notice 
that  both  the  writers  have  emphasized  the 
characteristic  feature  of  all  misers  :  hatred  of 
their  children.  Ask  any  doctor,  and  he  will 
tell  you  that  mental  patients,  in  almost  every 
case,  lose  the  capacity  to  love  or  take  an 
interest  in  their  relations  and  friends,  some- 
times, indeed,  manifesting  a  violent  animosity 
towards  them. 

"  It  is  not,  indeed,  only  Shakespeare,  or 
Pushkin,  or  Moliere,  it  is  all  the  science 
and  literature  of  centuries,  that  has  prepared 
the  way  for  this  (as  you  call  it)  '  new  theory.' 
In  our  hearts,  we  have  already  long  ago  ac- 
cepted it ;  we  are  only  hesitating  to  proclaim  it 
loudly,  because  it  destroys  all  our  laws  and  all 
our  religions,  and  the  whole  working  of  our 
worn-out  social  machinery.  We  are  not  yet 
rid  of  the  ideals  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  we  can- 
not tear  ourselves  away  from  the  hell  that  we 
picture  to  ourselves  as  clearly  as  did  Dante, 
nor  from  the  heaven  that,  in  our  imagina- 
tion, is  quite  as  dull  and  colourless  as  that  of 
the  immortal  Florentine.  But  time  passes, 
and  we  have  reached  the  last  days  of  the 


1 68  THE  EMIGRANT 

Middle  Ages.  The  New  Era  will  begin 
when  people  will  at  last  dare  to  proclaim 
loudly  that  there  are  no  saints  and  sinners, 
but  only  the  sick  and  the  healthy.  A  healthy 
man  can  find  heaven  on  earth,  while  a  dis- 
eased nature  lives  in  a  worse  hell  than  any 
that  can  be  invented  by  the  most  glowing 
imagination.  Only  when  we  realize  this, 
shall  we  understand  the  Gospel.  Until  now, 
during  all  these  nineteen  centuries,  we  have 
not  understood  it  at  all,  but  have  preserved 
it,  feeling  instinctively  that  we  shall  need  it  in 
time.  Christ's  love  for  '  sinners  '  will  become 
clear  to  us,  and  we  ourselves  shall  be  filled 
with  profound  pity  for  these  sufferers.  Even 
to-day,  no  one  dreams  of  hating  the  insane, 
or  being  incensed  against  them,  or  punishing 
them.  Gradually  we  shall  begin  to  regard  in 
the  same  light  all  malicious,  immoral,  envious 
natures,  pitying  them  boundlessly  for  being 
afflicted  with  such  cruel  diseases.  The  teach- 
ing of  Christ,  hitherto  but  half  understood, 
will  become  clear  and  simple." 

"But,    allow    me!"  —  interrupted    Irene. 
"  How  about  murderers  ?     Will  you  expect 


THE  EMIGRANT  169 

us  to  pity  them,  too,  and  shed  tears  over 
their  moral  sufferings  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly.  Murderers  suffer  from  the 
most  terrible  of  all  moral  diseases,  and  there- 
fore deserve  quite  particular  attention.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  have  ever  troubled 
to  read  accounts  of  the  executions  of  crimi- 
nals. I  have  often  done  so  with  great 
interest.  In  France,  as  soon  as  a  man  is 
condemned  to  death,,  he  is  fallen  upon  by 
a  whole  army  of  reporters,  who  repeat  the 
minutest  details  to  the  public :  what  the 
prisoner  ate,  how  much  he  drank,  how  he 
slept,  and  what  he  said.  This  wild  chase 
after  a  sensational  line  sometimes  uncon- 
sciously brings  to  light  important  facts. 
Recently,  for  instance,  I  read  an  account 
of  the  guillotining  in  a  provincial  town  of 
a  man  who  had  killed  his  father.  He  had, 
in  cold  blood,  cut  the  old  man's  throat,  in 
order  to  come  more  quickly  into  his  little 
inheritance.  He  was,  of  course,  very  soon 
caught — these  diseased  creatures  always  are. 
In  prison  he  astonished  everybody  by  a  com- 
plete indifference  to  his  murdered  father,  as 


i  yo  THE  EMIGRANT 

well  as  to  his  own  fate.  His  sentence  startled 
him  for  a  moment,  but,  a  minute  later,  he 
simply  and  confidently  told  his  gaolers  that 
he  hoped  to  keep  up  his  courage  and  his 
spirits  to  the  last  moment  if,  before  mount- 
ing the  scaffold,  they  could  give  him  some 
black  coffee  and  some  white  wine.  This  desire 
to  make  a  show  of  courage  before  the  public 
is  the  outcome  of  a  very  primitive  human 
impulse.  The  lower  a  man's  mental  develop- 
ment, the  more  he  gives  for  his  neighbour's 
praise.  Natures  with  loftier  aspirations  set 
a  smaller  value  on  public  opinion,  being,  in- 
deed, sometimes  quite  indifferent  to  it. 

"  The  prisoner's  wish  is  granted,  and  having 
swallowed  his  wine  and  his  coffee  he  leaves 
the  prison  with  a  firm  step,  accompanied  by 
a  priest,  who  does  not  for  a  moment  leave 
his  side.  On  mounting  the  scaffold  the 
murderer  turns  to  the  assembled  crowd  and 
makes  a  speech,  in  which  he  declares  his 
complete  repentance  and  bequeaths  his  ill- 
gotten  inheritance  to  charities.  These  are 
of  course  all  phrases  instilled  into  him  by  the 
priest  for  the  edification  of  the  public.  The 


THE  EMIGRANT  171 

prisoner  repeats  them  like  a  parrot,  still  for 
the  sake  of  public  opinion.  In  his  heart  he 
does  not  repent  in  the  least,  otherwise  he 
could  not  have  previously  shown  the  supreme 
indifference  to  his  dead  father  that  had  so 
enraged  his  gaolers. 

"At  last  the  comedy  is  over.  The  mur- 
derer, pleased  with  his  pose  of  piety,  turns 
round  and  sees  the  guillotine  knife.  Imme- 
diately, the  savage  brute  in  him  awakens. 
He  fights,  struggles,  scratches,  bites  and 
screams  —  he  sells  his  life  dearly.  Four 
other  savage  brutes  throw  themselves  on 
him  and  drag  him  to  the  knife.  The  crowd 
glumly  watches  the  nauseating  scene,  and 
gradually  disperses. 

" '  The  public/  writes  the  simple-minded 
reporter,  '  was  present  at  the  triumph  of 
justice,  but  instead  of  joy,  the  prevalent 
impression  was  one  of  having  witnessed 
something  incomplete  and  unsatisfactory/ 

"  What  wonder,  indeed !  Whatever  laws 
you  may  invent,  whatever  religions  you  may 
propagate,  human  instinct  always  was,  is,  and 
will  be,  more  reliable  than  them  all.  Instinct 


172  THE  EMIGRANT 

pointed  out  to  that  crowd  that  a  mistake  had 
been  made.  No  one  knew  where  the  mis- 
take lay,  but  its  disturbing  presence  made 
itself  clearly  felt. 

"  It  is  the  same  instinct  that  sometimes 
makes  people  act,  in  spite  of  themselves, 
apparently  against  their  convictions.  I  re- 
member once  being  taken  to  see  a  new 
prison,  built  according  to  the  very  latest 
ideas  and  principles.  The  criminals  had  not 
yet  been  transferred  into  their  new  quarters. 
The  founder  led  me  with  pride  through  the 
enormous,  lofty,  light,  excellently  ventilated 
wards,  showed  me  the  perfect  sanitary 
arrangements,  the  wash-stands,  the  hygienic 
beds,  the  luxurious  baths,  and  the  kitchen 
with  all  the  latest  and  most  modern  improve- 
ments. The  government  had  evidently  built, 
for  criminals,  this  magnificent  sanatorium  as 
a  reward  for  the  crimes  they  had  committed. 
Leaving  our  honest  little  peasant  to  starve 
and  freeze  as  he  will,  the  powers  that  be  had 
used  the  money  extorted  from  him  in  taxes 
to  provide  robbers  and  thieves  and  murderers 
with  comfortable  free  lodgings,  including 


THE  EMIGRANT  173 

light,  warmth,  excellent  food  and  clothing ! 
In  answer  to  my  perplexed  question,  the 
prison  inspector  explained  to  me  that  the 
prisoner  is  punished  by  being  deprived  of 
his  liberty.  What  an  explanation  !  Liberty 
is  dear  to  people  who  know  how  to  profit  by 
it.  Of  what  use  is  it  to  those  miserable 
wretches  who  look  upon  vodka  and  cheap 
tobacco  as  life's  greatest  treasures?  They 
can  get  both  in  prison,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
gayest  and  most  congenial  society !  Such 
prisons  are  a  mockery  of  justice,  and  a  per- 
version of  common  sense.  All  this  and  much 
more  could  be  said  to  the  Government — but 
the  fault-finder  would  be  wrong.  The  whole 
kernel  of  the  matter  lies  in  the  fact  that 
though  we  still  refuse  to  accept  the  new 
teaching,  though  we  regard  it  with  contempt 
and  hold  it  up  to  derision,  we  nevertheless 
instinctively  already  build,  not  prisons,  but 
— sanatoria.  As  usual,  instinct  is  more 
far-seeing  than  reason  or  the  law.  The 
time  is  not  far  off  when  prison  inspectors 
(who  have  been  transferred  by  chance  into 
these  new  sanatoria,  together  with  all  the 


174  THE  EMIGRANT 

remaining  out-of-date  paraphernalia  of  the 
old  institutions)  will  be  replaced  by  doctors. 
Then,  and  only  then,  will  begin  the  real 
recovery  and  redemption  of  society,  never 
to  be  attained  by  the  naive  isolation  of  acute 
cases  of  disease,  or  the  destruction  of  sick 
people  as  if  they  were  mad  dogs." 

"  But  how  can  such  cures  be  possible  ? 
These  are  surely  mere  dreams  !" 

"  Why  mere  dreams  ?  Much  has  already 
been  done — but  medicine  is  unfortunately 
still  in  its  infancy.  The  future  will  un- 
doubtedly bring  to  light  great  discoveries — 
means  and  possibilities  must  only  be  provided 
for  experiments.  Such  experiments,  indeed, 
are  already  receiving  attention  everywhere. 
Only  a  few  days  ago,  for  instance,  I  read  in 
the  papers  that  an  Italian  professor,  director 
of  a  gynaecological  institution,  had  an- 
nounced at  a  congress  that,  according  to  the 
results  of  his  researches,  all  female  criminals 
suffered  from  various  severe  forms  of  women's 
diseases.  He  suggested  that  instead  of  im- 
prisonment they  should  undergo  cures  in 
gynaecological  hospitals.  Can  you  imagine 


THE  EMIGRANT  175 

anything  more  wildly  stupid  than  sentencing 
a  woman  to  death,  or  shutting  her  up  for  life 
in  a  prison,  only  because  she  needs  to  under- 
go a  surgical  operation  ?  Perhaps  one  can 
imagine  just  one  thing  that  is  still  more  uncivi- 
lized— the  idea  that  she  will  burn  for  ever  in 
hell,  because  at  the  birth  of  her  children  she  was- 
attended  by  a  clumsy  or  ignorant  midwife ! 

"  And  how  many  such  cases  do  we  meet  at 
every  step !  I  remember  one  of  my  aunts 
once  told  me  how  she  had,  in  her  youth, 
suffered  from  over-sensitiveness.  She  always 
imagined  that  everyone  was  laughing  at  her,, 
that  no  one  loved  her,  that  she  had  constant 
reason  to  feel  offended  and  insulted.  She 
suffered  dreadfully  and  began  to  grow  posi- 
tively misanthropical,  hating  and  mistrusting 
everybody.  Happily,  chance  sent  her  a  clever 
doctor,  who  took  her  in  hand,  and  put  her 
nerves  in  order.  Simultaneously  with  this 
improvement,  her  hysterical  sensitiveness 
disappeared,  and  now,  as  soon  as  she  sus- 
pects that  she  is  going  to  have  an  attack  of 
'  being  offended,'  she  sends  to  the  chemist 
for  some  bromide,  and  all  is  well !" 


176  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  You  are  joking,  Sergei  Grigorievitch !" 
"Not  in  the  least.  We  could  all  be  of 
great  help  to  doctors  if  we  would  only  observe 
ourselves  more  closely.  Just  as  people  at 
present,  when  they  feel  indisposed,  carefully 
note  all  the  symptoms  of  their  illness,  and, 
in  order  to  decide  on  a  suitable  cure,  try  to 
determine  which  of  their  organs  is  attacked, 
even  so,  some  day,  people  will  carefully  note 
their  spiritual  ailments,  and  will  treat  envy, 
hatred,  and  malice  just  as  they  now  treat  their 
liver  and  kidneys!  You  are  laughing,  Irene 
Pavlovna.  But  indeed  many  a  new  view  that 
seemed  strange  at  first  has,  after  fifty  or  a 
hundred  years,  become  generally  accepted 
and  positively  commonplace.  We  have,  for 
the  time  being,  forgotten  the  ancient  precept 
Know  thyself ;  if  we  took  it  to  heart,  we  could 
often  be  our  own  doctors,  for  indeed  we  each 
have  within  ourselves  an  enormous  power  of 
self-treatment.  Our  Christian  confessions — 
the  so-called  examens  de  conscience  of  the 
Catholics — are  nothing  but  minute  observa- 
tions of  ourselves.  In  former  times  people 
took  communion,  and  therefore  went  to  con- 


THE  EMIGRANT  177 

fession,  every  Sunday.  They  were  obliged, 
once  a  week,  critically  to  examine  all  their 
actions,  and  to  decide  which  of  them  had  been 
sinful  (i.e.,  not  normal).  Beyond  this  they 
had  to  talk  these  actions  over  with  their 
spiritual  advisers,  men  chosen  for  this  purpose 
because  they  were  considered  worthy  of 
respect  and  confidence  (i.e.,  because  they  were 
normal  and  healthy).  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, it  always  happens  that  customs  initiated 
by  master  minds  for  the  lasting  benefit  of 
humanity,  invariably,  after  a  time,  fall  into 
the  hands  of  incapable  mediocrities,  who  do 
not  understand  the  true  meaning  and  object 
of  the  ideas  in  question,  and  transform  them 
into  mechanical  poses,  from  which  all  sincere 
natures  must  turn  away. 

"A  careful  observation  of  ourselves  would 
immensely  simplify  life,  and  would  make  many 
things  much  clearer  to  us.  You,  for  instance, 
Irene  Pavlovna,  are  sincerely  convinced  that 
the  only  reason  why  you  never  married  is 
the  fact  that  you  did  not  meet  a  man  who 
was  worthy  of  you.  Actually  there  was  quite 
another  reason.  You  simply  felt  a  physical 

12 


1 78  THE  EMIGRANT 

disgust  at  thought  of  the  realisms  of  marriage 
— the  living  with  a  man  as  his  wife,  the  bear- 
ing of  children,  the  feeding  and  nursing  of 
these  children.  This  prose  sickened  you, 
and  as  soon  as  someone  was  pleasing  or 
sympathetic  to  you,  you  hastened  to  find  or 
invent  reasons  for  not  marrying  him.  You 
looked  for  faults  in  him,  exaggerated  them, 
invented  them,  and  did  all  you  could  to  assure 
yourself  that  he  was  unworthy  of  you. 

"In  addition,  marriage  would  really  have 
meant  too  sudden  a  change  for  you — since, 
as  is  the  case  with  all  invalids,  even  the 
smallest  change  is  a  great  trial  for  your  nerves. 
Every  trifling  decision  costs  you  many  night- 
mares, and  is  accompanied  by  palpitation  of 
the  heart,  tears,  and  nervous  exhaustion. 
People  like  you  bear  every  discomfort  in 
their  house  rather  than  move  into  another 
one,  and  submit  to  the  tyranny  of  their 
servants  because  they  have  not  the  energy 
to  look  for  new  ones.  It  is  curious  that  such 
characters  arrive,  with  the  greatest  ease  and 
promptitude,  at  theoretical  and  abstract  deci- 
sions. For  instance,  to  take  a  furnished  house 


THE  EMIGRANT  179 

in  the  country  and  move  into  it  for  the  summer 
is  frightfully  difficult,  but  to  emigrate  is  very 
easy.  One  only  has  to  read  a  charming 
description  of  Rome,  and — good-bye,  Russia  t 
I  don't  want  you  any  more !  I  am  going  to 
Italy,  and  shall  become  an  Italian !" 

"What  nonsense  you  are  talking,  Sergei 
Grigorievitch  !  This  is  all  bluff,  and  you  are 
simply  trying  to  be  brilliant !  I  assure  you 
I  have  dreamt  of  marriage  all  my  life.  If 
you  only  knew  what  touching  scenes  of  family 
life  I  have  pictured  to  myself!  This  was 
always  my  greatest  delight !" 

"  Oh !  I  quite  believe  that !  We  know  how 
to  dream  beautifully !  And  in  our  dreams  we 
are  always  extraordinarily  active !  We  cross 
oceans,  found  colonies,  introduce  ideal  govern- 
ments, and  die  as  Kings  or  at  least  Presidents 
of  Republics!  In  actual  life,  however,  we 
groan,  we  are  miserable,  and  we  greatly 
resent  being  obliged  to  bother  about  going 
to  the  Bank,  in  order  to  receive  the  interest 
of  the  capital  acquired  for  us  by  our  more 
energetic  ancestors." 

"All  this  is  untrue,  and  a  mockery!" 


i8o  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  prove  the  truth  of 
my  words  by  an  example  ?" 

"  If  you  like." 

"  Very  well.  Do  you  consider  me  a  career- 
hunter  ?" 

"  Of  course  not.     What  an  idea !" 

"And,  in  your  opinion,  I  am  an  honest 
man  worthy  of  respect  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"In  that  case,  what  would  you  say  if  I 
asked  you  to  be  my  wife  ?" 

"  Sergei  Grigorievitch  !  What  are  you 
thinking  about  ?  I  am  much  too  old  to 
marry !" 

"  There !  I  have  caught  you  at  once  !  As 
soon  as  the  word  '  marriage '  is  mentioned, 
you  immediately  find  an  excuse." 

"  But  what  I  say  is  true !  If  you  want  to 
marry,  you  must  choose  a  young  girl  who 
can  have  children." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that  you  will  have 
no  children  ?  Are  you  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  decrees  of  the  celestial  chancery  ?  Be 
sincere  and  say  that  the  thought  of  marriage 
disgusts  you.  That  will  be  nearer  the  truth." 


XII 

THIS  conversation  greatly  perturbed  Irene. 
She  tried  to  assure  herself  that  it  was  all 
nonsense ;  but,  somehow,  truth  seemed  to 
look  reproachfully  at  her  through  Gzhatski's 
words.  Many  disquieting  remembrances 
came  to  her  mind,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  made  an  effort  to  see  herself  as 
others  saw  her.  Life  had  certainly,  till  now, 
never  required  of  her  any  particular  activity 
or  decision.  Everything  had  always  arranged 
itself  without  trouble.  She  had  lived  for  years 
in  the  flat  in  which  her  father  had  died, 
and  to  which  she  was  so  accustomed.  Her 
maids  had  served  her  mechanically,  and 
whenever  one  had  left,  friends  or  neighbours 
had  immediately  recommended  another  to 
take  her  place,  so  that  Irene  had  hardly 
noticed  the  change.  When  she  had  given 
181 


1 82  THE  EMIGRANT 

parties,  she  had  ordered  the  supper  at  a 
restaurant,  the  French  manager  of  which  had 
known  exactly  what  would  please  her  guests. 

"  Rapportez  vous  en  a  moi,  Mademoiselle," 
he  had  usually  remarked  with  confidence  ;  "  et 
vos  invite's  n'auront  pas  lieu  de  se  plaindre." 

In  the  same  way,  her  French  dressmaker 
had  known  exactly  what  she  should  wear, 
and  Irene  had  relied  entirely  on  the  French- 
woman's good  taste.  In  addition,  she  had 
really  never  had  time  to  think  out  her  own 
dresses,  for,  each  time  she  had  ordered  one, 
her  thoughts  had  rushed  off  to  the  trousseau 
she  would  some  day  provide  for  her  future 
daughter ;  and  the  colour  and  fabric  and 
fashion  of  all  those  future  dresses,  hats,  and 
furs  had  engrossed  her,  for  the  time  being, 
so  completely  that  there  had  not  been  a 
moment  left  for  her  own  immediate  attire ! 

The  greatest  amount  of  energy  Irene  had 
ever  expended  had  been  in  connection  with 
her  travels  abroad — though,  indeed,  here  also 
everything  seemed  to  arrange  itself  without 
her  guidance.  On  arriving  in  a  strange  town, 
she  had  never  been  allowed  even  to  wonder 


THE  EMIGRANT  183 

for  a  moment  where  she  should  stay.  Having 
hardly  set  foot  on  the  railway  arrival  platform, 
an  energetic  porter  had  invariably  seized  all 
her  belongings,  passed  them  on  to  some  still 
more  energetic  commissionaire,  and  before 
she  had  had  time  to  rub  her  eyes,  she  had 
been  packed  into  an  omnibus,  and  was  com- 
fortably driving  off  to  some  hotel.  She  had 
often  reflected  that  there  were  indeed  num- 
berless kind-hearted  people  in  the  world. 
How  many  of  them  troubled  themselves  to 
see  that  she  was  well  dressed,  well  fed,  well 
housed,  etc. !  The  money  that  she  gave  in 
exchange  for  these  services  seemed  to  her  a 
very  small  matter  indeed  in  comparison  to  the 
enormous  efforts  they  involved. 

At  one  time,  she  had  greatly  occupied  her- 
self with  this  thought.  Sitting  comfortably 
in  her  box  at  the  theatre,  she  had  wondered 
whether  it  was  right  that  the  actors  should 
play,  sing,  and  dance  for  her  amusement ; 
that  cab-drivers  should  freeze  for  hours  out- 
side the  theatre  doors,  on  the  chance  of  driv- 
ing her  home ;  that  the  night  porter  of  her 
house  should  get  out  of  bed  to  let  her  in — all 


184  THE  EMIGRANT 

this  for  trifling  sums  of  money  that  she  could 
never  even  miss,  and  that  she  had  received 
from  her  father.  Was  it  not  an  impossible 
arrangement  of  society,  by  which  so  many 
people  worked  for  one  idler?  The  question 
had  greatly  disturbed  Irene's  peace  of  mind; 
but  just  at  that  time  she  had  been  asked  to 
join  a  society  for  providing  poor  young 
mothers  with  layettes  for  their  babies.  The 
object  of  this  society  was  pleasing  to  Irene, 
and  all  her  disturbing  thoughts  had  lost  them- 
selves in  an  enormous  ardour  for  knitting 
babies'  counterpanes.  There  is  scarcely  an- 
other manual  occupation  that  needs  as  little 
attention  as  knitting.  One  can  knit  a  whole 
counterpane  so  mechanically  that  one  has 
hardly  noticed  how  it  happened.  And  so, 
Irene  had  knitted  and  knitted  during  all  the 
long  winter  evenings,  while  her  thoughts  had 
rushed  from  one  fancy  to  another.  She  had 
reorganized  the  Russian  army  and  fleet ;  she 
had  thought  out  schools  of  a  new  type,  from 
which  issued  the  most  remarkable,  active, 
energetic  people  ;  she  had  rebuilt  Petrograd  ; 
she  had  planned  new  railways  and  laid  out  a 


THE  EMIGRANT  185 

new  network  of  canals,  uniting  all  Russia's 
inland  seas. 

And  all  the  time,  the  counterpanes  had 
grown  and  grown,  till  at  last  Irene  had  been 
able  proudly  to  present  an  enormous  number 
of  completed  ones  to  the  society.  She  had 
been  happy  in  the  thought  that  if  the  work- 
men of  Petrograd  provided  her  with  all  the 
necessaries  of  life,  she  in  return  provided 
*  their  children  with  counterpanes.  In  this 
way,  justice  and  an  even  balance  had  been 
restored. 

It  is  true  that  the  society  had  also  imposed 
on  its  members  the  duty  of  visiting  the 
mothers.  This  duty,  however,  Irene  had  point 
blank  refused  to  take  upon  herself.  It  was 
preposterous,  she  had  thought.  What  would 
happen  if  she  were  by  chance  to  arrive  some- 
where at  a  moment  when  a  child  was  being 
born  ?  She  would  hear  the  mother's  groans 
and  see  the  red,  wrinkled  infant.  She  did  not 
even  know  very  exactly  how  it  all  happens, 
and  she  had  shuddered  at  the  very  idea  of 
witnessing  anything  so  nauseating.  In  gene- 
ral, she  had  always  felt  a  natural  disgust  for 


1 86  THE  EMIGRANT 

everything  physical,  and  had  never  brought 
herself  to  glance  without  a  shudder  at  the 
simplest  anatomical  design.  In  the  case  in 
point,  indeed,  she  had  preferred  to  knit  ten 
extra  counterpanes  rather  than  see  one  of 
the  babies  for  whom  they  were  destined. 

She  now  remembered  also  how  she  had 
always  loved  to  escape  from  real  life  into 
the  enchanted  realms  of  novels  and  poems. 
People  in  books  were  always  so  charming, 
and  all  their  thoughts  and  actions  so  compre- 
hensible. They  all  invariably  had  a  clear, 
well-defined  object  in  life,  and  strove  through 
a  few  hundred  engrossing  pages  to  attain  this 
object.  They  were  all  noble  and  generous, 
and  their  lives  were  bright  and  beautiful. 
What  interesting  and  delightful  moments 
Irene  had  passed  in  their  society !  They  had 
made  her  laugh  and  cry  and  suffer  and  re- 
joice, and  had  entertained  her  with  the  brilli- 
ancy of  their  wit.  How  dull  and  colourless 
real  people  had  appeared  beside  these  heroes 
and  heroines  of  fiction.  Real  people  never 
seemed  to  know  for  what  purpose  they 
existed,  nor  what  to  do  with  their  lives  ;  their 


THE  EMIGRANT  187 

characters  were  nearly  always  illogical  and 
uninteresting ;  they  were  married  stupidly 
and  aimlessly,  and  generally  to  the  wrong 
people ;  they  just  as  aimlessly  bore  children, 
and  did  nothing  but  reproach  them  for  having 
exactly  the  same  faults  as  themselves ;  if, 
however,  one  of  the  children  who  had  caused 
them  nothing  but  torments  and  trouble  died, 
they  made  a  terrific  fuss,  wrung  their  hands 
in  despair,  and  cursed  God.  How  could  Irene 
respect  such  people  ?  Ah  !  if  she  had  met  in 
real  life  a  Prince  Andrey,  from  "  Peace  and 
War,"  how  passionately  she  would  have 
loved  him !  And  what  an  intimate  friend 
she  would  have  made  of  Pushkin's  Tatiana  ! 
How  they  would  have  understood  each  other ! 
How  much  they  would  have  had  in  common! 
Irene  had  often  assured  her  friends  in  fun  that 
no  man  in  the  world  appealed  to  her  as  much 
as  Sherlock  Holmes. 

Thinking  over  all  this,  Irene  suddenly,  with 
a.  shock,  realized  that  Gzhatski  was  perfectly 
right,  that  she  had  really  never  lived,  but  had 
only  slumbered  and  dreamt,  and  had  in  this 
way  let  her  youth  slip  by.  Having  now  un- 


1 88  THE  EMIGRANT 

derstood  her  own  illness,  was  there  still  time 
for  a  cure,  for  a  return  to  normal  life  ?  Could 
she  renounce  her  contempt  for  humanity  ? 
Could  she  try  to  love  human  nature,  in  spite 
of  its  defects  ?  Could  she  live  in  the  world, 
sharing  its  joys  and  sorrows  ?  Or  was  it  too 
late  ?  Was  not  Pere  Etienne,  perhaps,  per- 
suading her  to  take  the  veil  just  for  that  self- 
same reason  ?  Did  not  the  clever  priest,, 
perhaps,  regard  her  simply  as  a  nervous 
patient,  and  was  he  not  possibly  trying  by 
every  possible  ruse  to  lure  her  into  a  convent 
as  one  lures  lunatics  into  an  asylum  ?  The 
thought  was  painful. 

Gzhatski,  in  the  meantime,  having  pro- 
posed to  Irene  in  jest,  knowing  perfectly  well 
that  she  would  refuse,  had  suddenly,  once  the 
proposal  was  made  and  rejected,  begun  to- 
think  seriously  about  marrying  her.  He 
had  for  some  years  past  quite  given  up  his 
old  dreams  of  marriage,  but  having  during 
the  autumn  previous  to  his  Italian  journey 
spent  two  lonely  months  in  the  country,  away 
from  all  his  friends,  alone  with  an  old  devoted 
but  badly  trained  servant,  Gzhatski  had  often 


THE  EMIGRANT  189 

meditated  with  some  sadness  on  the  failure  of 
his  cherished  plans,  and  on  the  lonely  old  age 
that  awaited  him.  Irene's  innocence  and 
simple-mindedness  appealed  to  him,  and  em- 
phatically as  he  assured  her  that  indifference 
to  wealth  and  position  was  a  symptom  of 
disease,  this  particular  symptom  was,  never- 
theless, in  her  case,  pleasing  to  him.  Her 
moral  purity  reminded  him  of  his  mother, 
though,  indeed,  one  could  hardly  imagine  two 
more  diverse  characters  :  the  one  deeply  and 
passionately  religious,  the  other  embittered 
and  indifferent  even  to  her  shattered  ideals. 

Taking  advantage  of  the  impression  pro- 
duced on  Irene's  mind  by  the  "  Life  of  Saint 
Amulfia,"  and  her  resultant  disillusionment 
on  the  subject  of  convents,  Gzhatski  per- 
suaded her  to  venture  a  little  out  of  her  seclu- 
sion, and  to  see  something  of  Roman  society. 
The  season  was  in  full  swing.  Crowds  of 
English  and  American  tourists  were  besieg- 
ing the  hotels,  and  were  being  pitilessly 
fleeced.  The  Costanzi  theatre  engaged  one 
famous  singer  after  another,  and  great  society 
hostesses  vied  with  each  other  in  the  brilli- 


190  THE  EMIGRANT 

ancy  of  their  receptions.  Armies  of  peasant 
women  and  their  children,  in  picturesque 
national  costumes,  wandered  down  from  the 
Albanian  hills  to  sell  flowers  to  the  forestieri 
(foreigners).  Old  Rome  seemed  to  have 
grown  young  again,  and  basked  gaily  in  the 
golden  spring  sunshine. 

Gzhatski  took  Irene  to  the  Horse  Show, 
organized  by  the  fashionable  "  Fox-hunters' 
Club."  Fox-hunting,  the  recreation  of  the 
most  aristocratic  Roman  circles,  is  a  feature 
of  the  winter  season.  The  perfect  roads 
traversing  the  Campagna,  the  splendid  views, 
the  fresh  air,  the  invigorating  canter  across 
the  plain,  a  little  harmless  flirtation  with  the 
most  elegant  of  equestriennes,  all  this  is  dear 
to  the  heart  of  the  fashionable  Roman.  As 
to  the  foxes,  they  suffer  but  little  at  the 
hands  of  their  aristocratic  hunters  ! 

"  The  fox  is  an  old  Roman,"  the  more 
sincere  sportsmen  often  frankly  admit — "he 
knows  every  inch  of  the  Campagna,  much 
better  than  we  do,  and  rarely  lets  himself  be 
caught." 

In  answer  to  any  question  about  the  hunt, 


THE  EMIGRANT  191 

Roman  "High  Life"  almost  invariably  as- 
serts that  the  day  was  superb.  "  At  the 
start,  a  fox  was  raised,  but  managed  to  evade 
the  hunters,  and  finally  escaped." 

Evil  tongues,  indeed,  assert  that  these 
foxes  are  mechanical,  and  ^are  wound  up  and 
started  before  every  hunt !  But  then — what 
strange  rumours  will  not  evil  tongues  invent  1 
The  sportsmen  are  never  discouraged,  and  it 
is  under  their  auspices  that  the  annual  Horse 
Show  is  organized. 

On  arriving  at  the  Tor  di  Fiorenza,  Irene 
was  greeted  by  a  scene  as  picturesque  as  it 
was  new  and  unfamiliar  to  her.  The  races 
were  held  in  a  valley  between  low  hills,  the 
obstacles  being  scattered  not  only  over  the 
level  ground,  but  also  on  the  grassy  slopes. 
The  course,  indeed,  was  a  bewilderingly 
winding  one,  up-hill  and  down-hill,  the  last 
and  most  difficult  barrier  being  placed  at  a 
considerable  height,  followed  by  a  steep 
incline  down  to  the  winning-post. 

Some  of  the  jockeys  were  flung  over  this 
last  barrier,  head  forwards  !  Their  riderless 
horses,  taking  the  leap  by  themselves,  quietly 


1 92  THE  EMIGRANT 

turned  aside  and  began  to  regale  themselves 
on  the  fresh  grass,  while  the  soldiers  on 
guard  picked  up  what  was  left  of  the  un- 
conscious sportsmen  ! 

There  were  no  seats  of  any  kind  provided 
for  the  public.  The  fashionable  onlookers 
stood  about  on  the  grass,  or  sat  on  folding 
stools  they  had  brought  with  them  ;  others 
even,  when  overtired,  seated  themselves  on 
the  damp  ground.  Sometimes,  the  public 
pressed  so  close  to  the  barriers  that  they  were 
actually  in  the  way,  and  one  of  the  judges  on 
horseback  approached,  courteously  requesting 
the  crowd  to  stand  back.  Children,  brought 
there  for  some  unknown  reason,  arranged 
little  races  and  competitions  of  their  own,  and 
skipped  merrily  up  and  down  the  hills,  to  the 
delight  of  their  parents.  The  Roman  is 
a  tender  father,  and  is  not  ashamed  of  his 
tenderness.  For  that  matter,  the  Romans 
present  were  probably  in  the  minority,  every 
possible  nationality  being  represented  in  the 
assemblage.  The  manner,  attire,  and  general 
appearance  of  all  cosmopolitan  aristocrats 
being  similar,  one  could  only  distinguish  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  193 

various  nationalities  of  those  present  by  the 
accent  with  which  they  spoke  French,  the 
language  almost  universally  adopted  in 
Roman  society.  Irene  studied  the  animated 
picture  before  her  with  great  interest.  The 
weather  was  lovely.  The  recent  rains  had 
covered  the  whole  valley  with  a  carpet  of 
new,  green  grass,  from  which  peeped,  here 
and  there,  a  shy,  little  early  field-flower. 
The  air  was  fragant  with  the  scent  of  spring, 
and  the  pink  and  white  bloom  of  the  cherry- 
trees  contrasted  strangely  with  the  solemn 
darkness  of  the  Roman  pines.  The  gay, 
elegant  crowd  laughed  and  chatted  around 
Irene,  and  her  glance  wandered,  with  a 
curious  sense  of  strangeness,  from  one  face 
to  another.  These  handsome,  well  dressed 
men,  these  dainty,  fashionable  ladies,  prob- 
ably making  the  Horse  Show  an  excuse  for 
some  rendezvous,  seemed  to  her  to  belong  to 
some  other  world,  and  to  have  indeed  noth- 
ing whatever  in  common  with  the  ex-nun, 
as  she,  with  some  bitterness,  called  herself. 


XIII 

LITTLE  by  little,  however,  Irene  let  herself 
be  drawn  into  the  whirl  of  Italian  social  life. 
Italian  society  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
and  delightful  societies  in  the  world.  It  is 
indeed  impossible  not  to  love  these  charming, 
sympathetic,  gay,  splendidly  accomplished 
and  witty  Southerners.  What  a  difference 
between  their  sparkling  and  brilliant  recep- 
tions, and  the  dull,  heavy  entertainments  of 
Petrograd !  Nowhere  in  Rome  did  Irene 
meet  those  gloomy,  silent  figures  that  wander 
forlornly  about  Petrograd  drawing-rooms,  only 
waiting  for  supper.  They  do  not  exist  in 
Italy,  neither  does  the  supper.  At  the  most 
brilliant  receptions,  there  is  never  more  than 
one  table  for  light  refreshments,  tea,  ices, 
wines,  lemonade.  Most  of  the  guests,  how- 
ever, never  even  approach  this  table,  but 

194 


THE  EMIGRANT  195 

prefer,  on  returning  home,  to  drink  a  glass 
of  cold  water,  of  the  purity  of  which  Romans 
are  prouder  than  of  the  Colosseum  or  the 
Forum.  They  go  to  receptions,  not  for  the 
sake  of  eating  and  drinking,  but  rather  for 
laughter  and  flirtation  and  brilliant  conversa- 
tion. At  almost  every  social  gathering  there 
is  music  and  recitation.  Everybody  recites  : 
poets,  poetesses,  and  ordinary  mortals.  The 
Italian  language,  especially  as  spoken  in 
Rome,  is  so  musical  that  the  recitations  give 
pleasure  even  to  foreigners  who  do  not 
understand  their  meaning.  There  is  great 
variety  in  this  fashionable  art.  An  old  poet 
rises,  requests  that  most  of  the  lights  may  be 
extinguished,  takes  an  effective  attitude,  and 
begins,  with  theatrical  intensity,  to  raise  and 
to  lower  his  voice,  rather,  indeed,  to  sing 
than  to  speak.  He  is  listened  to  with  atten- 
tion, but  the  younger  generation  smiles : 
"  The  old  school,"  it  whispers  disdainfully. 

He  is  followed  by  a  young  representative 
of  modern  ideas,  a  North  Italian  poetess,  on 
a  visit  to  Rome.  She  is  dressed  in  decadent 
green  draperies  (that  suit  her  perfectly,  by 


196  THE  EMIGRANT 

the  way!),  and  to  the  accompaniment  of 
angular,  decadent  gestures,  she  begins  to 
recite  her  lines,  simply,  and  in  a  natural 
voice.  The  simplicity  is  studied,  to  the  point 
of  becoming  almost  a  mannerism.  The 
young  people,  however,  are  delighted,  especi- 
ally the  men,  who  gaze  with  undisguised 
pleasure  at  the  beautiful  poetess. 

But  suddenly  there  steps  into  the  centre 
of  the  room  a  young  girl  amateur,  the 
daughter  of  a  Roman  prefect.  She  recites 
some  verses  by  d'Annunzio.  This  is  neither 
the  old  nor  the  new  school,  but  simply  a 
burning  young  Italian  soul,  and  the  charming, 
unaffected  sincerity  of  her  art  is  rewarded  by 
storms  of  applause. 

To  singing  or  piano-playing  Italians  listen 
with  even  still  greater  attention.  No  one 
talks,  but  each  listener  seems  lost  in  rapture. 
No  one  who  can  perform  hesitates  or  affectedly 
waits  to  be  asked  half  a  dozen  times  ;  on  the 
contrary,  everyone  is  burning  to  show  off 
his  talent.  They  enjoy  their  own  perform- 
ances, and,  inspired  by  the  almost  religious 
attention  of  their  hearers,  sing  more  glori- 


THE  EMIGRANT  197 

ously  than  would  ever  be  possible  in  the 
chilly  North. 

Art,  indeed,  and  the  worship  of  beauty,  is 
the  only  religion  of  the  Romans.  "  Art  for 
art's  sake,"  they  declare,  as  they  laugh  at 
modern  realistic  literature. 

"  Every  time  we  attempt  to  represent 
some  inward  struggle,"  complained  a  famous 
Italian  lady  novelist  to  Irene,  "the  critics 
hold  us  up  to  ridicule,  and  say  we  are  imitat- 
ing Russian  writers !" 

To  tell  a  Roman  writer  that  his  work  is 
pervaded  by  a  Christian  spirit  is  to  offend 
him  deeply.  He  has  only  one  ideal :  his 
verses  or  his  prose  must  as  nearly  as  possible 
resemble  antique  art.  The  true  Roman  has 
a  profound  contempt  for  Christianity,  a 
religion,  in  his  eyes,  suited  only  to  slaves 
and  low  menials,  and  not  to  nobler  natures. 
The  Roman  is  a  pagan,  and  is  proud  of  the 
fact.  Nineteen  centuries  have  passed  un- 
noticeably  for  him.  The  Eternal  City,  with  its 
antique  ruins,  and  its  ancient  associations, 
holds  him  enchained.  In  Northern  Italy 
new  ideas,  new  tendencies,  may  be  possible — 


198  THE  EMIGRANT 

but  Rome  will  remain  pagan  for  ever. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  this  may  explain  the  strong 
impression  Rome  produces  on  many  for- 
eigners. There  are,  in  the  world,  many 
pagans,  on  whom  life  in  Christian  lands 
weighs  heavily.  They  have  to  take  part  in 
conversations  about  love,  about  unselfishness, 
about  kindness  to  one's  neighbours,  etc.,  and, 
being  honourable  characters,  this  enforced 
hypocrisy  causes  them  much  mental  torment. 
In  Rome,  where  everyone  is  frankly  pagan, 
and  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  the  fact,  they 
feel  like  fishes  in  water,  and  often  settle  there 
for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

Most  humorous  of  all  is  the  fact  that  all 
this  pagan  world  lives  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Papal  throne.  In  the  eyes  of  Romans,  how- 
ever, the  Pope  has  never  been  the  High- 
Priest  of  Christ  on  earth.  He  is  simply  the 
Pontifex  Maximus,  and  does  not  even  wish 
anyone  to  regard  him  in  any  other  light. 
Romans,  indeed,  make  a  point  of  disillusion- 
ing every  religiously  inclined  foreigner  they 
come  across  by  laughing  at  him  and  holding 
his  pious  ideas  up  to  ridicule.  If  he  returns 


THE  EMIGRANT  199 

in  a  reverent  mood  from  a  visit  to  the  tomb 
of  St.  Peter,  they  hasten  to  inform  him  that, 
according  to  historical  evidence,  the  Apostle 
Peter  had  never  been  in  Rome,  and  that  his 
place  of  burial  is  unknown.  As  to  the  Apostle 
Paul  and  other  Christian  martyrs,  their  bones 
were  exhumed  and  their  ashes  thrown  to  the 
winds  at  the  time  of  the  Barbarian  invasion. 

Romans  make  jokes  about  their  miraculous 
images,  laugh  at  miracles,  relate  indecent 
stories  about  cardinals,  priests,  and  monks, 
and  present  caricatures  of  them  on  the  stage 
No  wonder,  indeed,  that  many  pious  pilgrims 
have  lost  their  faith  in  Rome. 

Among  the  many  completely  pagan  super- 
stitions that  are  still  extant  in  Roman  society, 
the  most  notoriously  absurd  is  that  in  con- 
nection with  so-called  Jetatori.  Irene  had 
heard  of  this  superstition  while  yet  in 
Russia,  but  had  thought  that  it  was  in  vogue 
solely  among  the  ignorant  lower  classes  of 
Naples.  What  then  was  her  astonishment 
on  coming  across  it  in  the  most  enlightened 
circles  of  Roman  society !  If  a  Roman 
passes  an  acquaintance  in  the  street  without 


200  THE  EMIGRANT 

noticing  him  and  bowing,  or  if  he  fails  to 
invite  him  to  one  of  his  parties,  the  offended 
one  revenges  himself  by  announcing  the  other 
to  be  a  Jetator.  Thereupon,  society,  im- 
mediately, as  one  man,  turns  its  back  on 
the  latter!  If  by  some  chance,  and  in  the 
face  of  public  opinion,  some  specially  fear- 
less soul  invites  a  Jetator  to  a  reception, 
no  one  dreams  of  speaking  to  him,  it  is  con- 
sidered dangerous  even  to  look  at  him,  and 
heaven  forbid,  indeed,  that  one  should  be 
obliged  to  sit  next  to  him !  No  one  even 
mentions  him,  as  the  very  sound  of  his  name 
is  supposed  to  bring  misfortune.  Only  great 
wealth  and  high  rank  can  save  any  Roman 
from  falling  under  this  ban.  Saddest  of  all, 
however,  is  the  fact  that  the  wife  and  children 
and  all  the  relations  of  \hejetator  share  his 
evil  influence,  and,  therefore,  his  hard  fate. 
Irene  once  happened  to  meet,  at  a  luncheon 
party,  the  accidentally  invited  wife  of  a 
Jetator.  Two  ladies,  who  had  been  obliged 
to  sit  next  to  the  evil  one,  were  taken 
seriously  ill  on  the  same  day,  one  with  her 
customary  liver  complaint,  and  the  other  with 


THE  EMIGRANT  201 

a  severe  cold,  having  gone  out  too  soon  after 
an  attack  of  influenza  !  Both  cases  were,  of 
course,  attributed  to  the  unfortunate  woman, 
to  whom,  after  this  occurrence,  every  door  in 
Rome  was  closed  with  redoubled  vigilance. 

Irene  was  astonished  to  find  that  this  super- 
stition was  shared  also  by  the  majority  of  the 
foreigners  in  Rome,  who  seemed  to  become 
infected  by  it  on  their  arrival,  and  were  cured 
only  on  their  departure  from  the  Eternal  City. 
Such  a  peculiarity  can  only  be  explained  by 
the  almost  unbearable  force  of  the  impression 
that  Rome  makes  on  most  strangers.  In  all 
the  rest  of  our  contemporary  great  cities,  we 
live  in  the  twentieth  century.  On  arriving  in 
Rome,  we  are  suddenly  plunged  into  the  very 
heart  of  antiquity,  then  rushed,  without  a 
moment's  warning,  into  the  Middle  Ages, 
with  their  Vatican,  their  churches,  their  con- 
vents, and  their  palaces,  or  flung  into  the 
whirlpool  of  the  most  brilliant  and  fashion- 
able modernity.  All  these  elements  are 
bound  up  together,  and  one  passes  from  one 
to  the  other  in  a  day.  The  human  mind  is 
incapable  of  such  an  immense  effort,  becomes 


202  THE  EMIGRANT 

unbalanced,  and  is  ready  to  accept  and  believe 
the  wildest  nonsense. 

Another  pagan  feature  in  the  Roman 
character  is  the  extraordinary  attachment  of 
all  Romans  to  their  native  city.  The  first 
question  that  is  put  to  every  stranger  on  his 
arrival  is  :  "  Do  you  like  Rome  ?"  and  woe 
to  the  simple-minded  foreigner  who  answers 
in  the  negative !  The  dark  eyes  of  the  incred- 
ulous Roman  sparkle  with  indignation  and 
astonishment,  which  gradually  give  place  to  a 
pitying  contempt  for  the  ignorant  simpleton ! 
In  vain  the  latter  tries  to  atone  for  his  mistake 
by  remarking  that  he  does  not  dislike  Venice 
or  Florence.  This  does  not  touch  or  interest 
the  Romans  at  all.  In  spite  of  a  superficial 
union,  Italy  consists,  as  much  as  ever,  of  a 
number  .of  separate  states.  Admiration  of 
Venice  or  Naples  can  only  offend  a  Roman. 
The  stranger  tries  hard  to  explain  that  it  is 
impossible  to  admire  a  town  that  is  entirely 
lacking  in  harmony,  and  in  which  the  modern 
buildings  erected  by  the  government  nearly 
give  one  convulsions,  such  an  eyesore  is  their 
dazzling  whiteness  on  the  background  of  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  203 

yellow,  ancient  city.  He  repeats  in  vain  that 
being  accustomed,  at  home,  to  broad,  well- 
lighted  avenues,  he  cannot  but  regard  with 
disgust  the  narrow,  dark  alleys  of  the  ancient 
quarters  of  Rome,  while,  being  used  to  clear 
air  and  constantly  watered  streets,  he  is  still 
more  profoundly  disgusted  at  the  clouds  of 
that  particularly  objectionable  yellow  dust 
that  rise  with  every  gust  of  wind  blowing 
over  Rome. 

The  Roman  listens  gloomily  to  the  stranger, 
but  is  not  convinced.  He  is  not  consoled  by 
the  admission  that  his  city  is  very  original, 
and  that  every  educated  man  ought  to  see  it. 
He  requires  and  expects  love  and  admiration 
for  his  "  Cara  Roma,"  the  adored  fair  one, 
for  whom  he  would  willingly  die.  Irene  envied 
the  Romans  this  fervour  and  the  love  of  home 
which  forced  all  inhabitants,  before  temporarily 
leaving  the  city,  to  drink  of  the  water  of  the 
famous  Fontana  Trevi,  and  throw  a  coin  into 
the  fountain — superstitiously  assuring  them- 
selves by  this  means  that  they  would  safely 
return.  No  other  nation  in  the  world  has 
invented  such  a  poetic  superstition  as  this. 


204  THE  EMIGRANT 

Being  a  pagan,  it  follows  that  the  Roman 
is  the  most  loving  of  fathers  and  the  most 
dutiful  of  sons.  As  he  knows  nothing  about 
Christianity  or  love  and  charity  towards  his 
neighbour  in  the  broad  sense,  he  laughs  at 
such  ideas  as  absurdities,  and  gives  all  the 
love  of  his  heart  to  his  own  family.  On 
public  holidays,  fathers  are  everywhere  to 
be  seen  leading  by  the  hand  tiny  children  in 
their  Sunday  frocks,  treating  them  to  choco- 
late and  cakes  at  the  fashionable  confectioners, 
and  talking  caressingly  with  them.  Or  else 
one  meets  young  married  couples,  accompanied 
by  nurses  who,  with  airs  of  vast  importance, 
carry  on  cushions  three-weeks-old  infants, 
concealed  under  clouds  of  lace.  Babies  are 
not  hidden  away  in  back  rooms,  as  in  other 
countries.  From  the  moment  of  their  birth, 
children  have  their  rights  and  privileges,  and, 
in  the  arms  of  their  nurses,  receive  visitors ! 

But  although  Romans  love  and  respect 
their  little  ones,  they  never  become  the  slaves 
of  the  children.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the 
parents  who  are  adored  and  deeply  respected, 
the  children  seeing  in  them  the  principal 


THE  EMIGRANT  205 

representatives  of  their  race.  There  are  in 
Rome  countless  aged  fathers  and  mothers 
who  live  in  palaces  and  drive  about  in 
magnificent  motor-cars,  while  their  children 
struggle  to  make  both  ends  meet,  going  about 
on  foot  and  living  in  small  flats.  No  one 
would  ever  dream  of  depriving  his  parents  of 
anything  for  his  own  benefit,  or  for  the  sake 
of  his  children,  as,  alas  !  so  often  happens  in 
Russia.  This  love  of  one's  race  and  one's 
family  is  the  foundation  stone  of  Latin  civili- 
zation. In  the  northern  countries  that  have 
received  their  civilization  through  Christianity 
this  love  is  not  nearly  so  pronounced.  Chris- 
tianity does  not  encourage  family  interests, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  demands  that  all  men 
should  be  brothers.  Romans  have  succeeded 
in  remaining  deaf  to  these  demands,  and  have 
kept  their  ancient  Latin  character.  This  is 
most  noticeable  in  the  Roman  museums,  where 
the  types  represented  by  the  antique  statues 
bear  the  most  striking  resemblance  to  modern 
Romans. 

The   Roman    has    remained   true   to   the 
pagan  passion  for  luxury  and  magnificence. 


2o6  THE  EMIGRANT 

Nowhere  in  the  world  can  one  see  so  many 
private  carriages  as  in  Rome.  No  self- 
respecting  Roman  goes  about  on  foot.  He 
must  have  a  carriage  to  drive  through  the 
Corso,  and,  at  the  fashionable  hour,  on  the 
Pincio.  He  does  not  care  about  the  elegance 
of  his  horses  or  their  harness,  but  his  carriage 
must  have  red  and  yellow  wheels,  and  his 
grooms  must  have  smart  liveries.  In  their 
deep-seated  victorias  fashionable  Roman 
beauties  lean  back  lazily  under  their  enormous 
ostrich-plumed  hats,  their  knees  covered,  not, 
as  elsewhere,  by  a  common  traditional  plaid 
travelling  rug,  but  by  a  magnificent  bear-skin 
or  tiger-skin,  the  paws  hanging  down  over 
the  wheels. 

The  prices  at  the  Costanzi  Theatre  are 
colossal.  A  box  costs  as  much  as  £6 ;  yet 
the  opera  is  always  crowded,  and  not  only 
this,  but  the  men  appear  in  evening  dress, 
and  the  ladies  in  low  neck  and  diamonds ! 
This  southern  cult  of  elegance  and  luxury, 
indeed,  is  in  evidence  everywhere.  Roman 
women  never  wear  everyday  clothes.  They 
always  seem  to  be  in  fancy  dress,  appearing 


THE  EMIGRANT  207 

in  fantastic  bright  scarlet,  yellow,  or  green 
costumes,  with  golden  caps  and  golden  ser- 
pents. They  all  wear  numerous  necklaces, 
combs,  buckles,  brooches,  mostly  imitations 
of  the  antique,  for  which  Roman  jewellers 
are  famous.  This  style  of  dress  would  be 
absurd  in  the  North,  but  it  suits  the  Roman 
beauties  to  perfection. 

In  spite  of  its  paganism,  however,  Roman 
society  nevertheless  belongs  to  and  is  closely 
linked  with  the  great  family  of  social  Europe 
from  which  Russia  is  hopelessly  separated 
by  centuries  of  culture.  Irene  was  charmed 
to  notice,  for  instance,  how  much  universal 
sympathy  and  attention  were  lavished,  in 
Roman  social  circles,  on  a  foreign  authoress, 
who  was  studying  Roman  life  with  a  view 
to  making  it  the  subject  of  her  next  work. 
Everyone  tried  to  help  her ;  closed  doors 
were  opened  for  her,  and  meetings  with 
interesting  people  were  willingly  arranged. 
Nobody  troubled  to  find  out  whether  she  was 
talented  or  not,  or  whether  her  work  would  be 
translated  into  Italian.  She  had  expressed  a 
desire  to  work,  and  that  was  quite  enough. 


208  THE  EMIGRANT 

In  the  same  way  they  helped  an  American, 
known  in  Europe  as  the  Book  King,  to  form 
his  library.  This  American  was  a  very  repre- 
sentative example  of  a  curious  modern  type 
produced,  so  far,  only  by  the  New  World. 
Nobody  knew  where  he  had  lived  and  what 
he  had  done  in  his  youth.  He  had  been 
born,  so  to  say,  at  forty  years  of  age,  when, 
having  made  a  fortune,  he  crossed  the  ocean, 
appeared  in  Paris,  and  announced  his  desire 
to  form  a  library  composed  entirely  of  the 
works  of  contemporary  writers,  each  volume 
to  be  autographed  by  the  author,  who  must 
add  a  few  words  to  explain  what  special  idea 
he  had  intended  to  express  in  the  work  in 
question.  The  enterprising  Yankee  was  pro- 
foundly ignorant,  had  never  read  anything  at 
all,  and  had  never  heard  of  names  known  to 
all  the  world.  Also  he  was  as  tactless  as  the 
majority  of  his  compatriots;  but,  with  true 
American  insistence,  he  applied  to  everybody, 
pestered  people  pitilessly,  and  really  ended 
by  getting  together  a  very  interesting  collec- 
tion of  books.  It  was  his  express  desire  that 
this  collection  should  be  sent  to  America,  and 


THE  EMIGRANT  209 

should  never  again  leave  American  soil ; 
and  yet,  so  great  is  Italian  generosity,  on 
the  collector's  arrival  in  Rome  everyone 
helped  him  by  making  out  lists  of  Italian 
writers  and  by  introducing  him  to  literary 
people. 

Involuntarily,  while  observing  all  these 
facts,  Irene's  thoughts  strayed  back  to  her 
own  country,  where,  alas !  things  were  ar- 
ranged very  differently.  With  the  exception 
of  a  very  limited  circle  of  people  educated 
in  the  European  fashion,  all  the  rest  of  Rus- 
sian society  is  nothing  but  a  crowd  of  ignorant, 
lazy,  uncivilized  bears,  who  spend  all  their 
lives  lying  half  -  asleep  in  their  dens,  and 
sucking  their  paws.  Woe,  indeed,  to  him 
who  may  occasionally  attempt  to  wish  for 
something  better  than  this  beloved,  national, 
loutish  existence,  or  who  may  perhaps  by 
chance  not  only  have  an  idea,  but  also  a 
vague  desire  to  work  at  it !  What  a  howl  of 
•displeasure  and  derision  makes  itself  heard 
in  all  the  dens!  "What!"  wail  the  bears, 
•"  renounce  our  idleness,  and  our  laziness, 
and  our  true  Russian  eternal  nagging  and 


210  THE  EMIGRANT 

grumbling  ?  How  dares  he  !  Murder  f 
Treason  !  Cry  him  down  !  Kill  him  !" 

All  the  rest  of  Europe  has  long  been 
intelligent  enough  to  understand  that  even 
the  most  microscopic  effort,  when  added  to 
other  efforts,  produces  a  total  of  labour  that 
must  be  of  use  to  all  the  world.  Alas !  It 
will  be  a  very  long  time  before  the  dull, 
stupid  Russian  bears  are  brought  to  under- 
stand even  something  so  simple  as  this ! 

Irene  was  particularly  attracted  by  Italian 
women.  These  charming  creatures  have 
neither  nerves  nor  caprices.  They  are  kind 
and  amiable,  they  make  friends  easily,  and 
they  are  ready  to  be  of  assistance  to  every 
foreigner  they  come  across.  Never  once 
did  Irene  see,  at  Roman  gatherings,  any- 
thing resembling  the  anxious,  world-worn 
expressions  of  the  young  girls  who  fill 
Petrograd  drawing-rooms. 

"  Shall  I  ever  meet  my  fate  ?  Shall  I 
have  many  children  ?  Shall  I  be  happy  ?'* 
say  their  pale,  sad,  restless  faces.  Italian 
girls  are  bright  and  gay  and  happy.  They 
delight  in  the  sunshine,  the  flowers,  and  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  211 

spring-time  of  their  own  lives.  They  have 
no  need  to  fear  the  future,  for  they  know 
that  to  Italian  men  love  is  as  necessary  as 
air.  They  will  never,  indeed,  have  to  deal 
with  miserable  Petrograd  ^worldlings,  who 
may  try  as  they  will  to  squeeze  a  drop  of 
tenderness  out  of  their  icy  hearts,  but  will 
always  die  without  having  succeeded  ! 

Irene  was  quite  astonished  at  herself  for 
finding  Italian  society  so  attractive.  She,  a 
stranger,  speaking  another  language,  holding 
another  faith,  felt  quite  at  home  in  its  circles. 
She  looked  back  with  a  shudder  at  the  old 
days  in  Petrograd,  and  at  the  bitter  sense  of 
resentment  and  irritation  with  which  she  had 
invariably  returned  home  from  all  social 
gatherings.  Here,  Irene  delighted  in  those 
exquisite  sensual  entertainments,  with  their 
music,  their  singing,  their  recitations.  On 
leaving  them,  she  loved  to  take  deep  breaths 
of  the  balmy  night  air,  feeling  that  soft  sense 
of  luxury  that  a  tired  wanderer  experiences 
on  getting  into  a  warm,  fragrant  bath. 
"  How  am  I  to  explain  all  this  ?"  wondered 
Irene. 


212  THE  EMIGRANT 

Alas !  Like  most  of  us,  Irene  did  not 
know  herself.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that 
since  her  earliest  childhood  she  had  never 
been  anything  but  a  pagan.  Whereas,  how- 
ever, Roman  paganism  was  hereditary  and 
the  result  of  centuries  of  voluntary  enslave- 
ment to  antique  culture  and  its  ideals,  Irene's 
paganism  was  simply  a  morbid  disease. 
Like  sufferers  from  progressive  paralysis, 
who  gradually  sink  into  a  state  of  primitive 
bestiality,  so  a  diseased  soul  not  only  can- 
not develop,  but  cannot  even  maintain 
itself  on  a  level  with  its  contemporaries,  and 
invariably  slips  back  to  the  ideals  of  a  past 
civilization. 


XIV 

OF  all  the  Roman  houses  in  which  Irene 
visited,  she  most  liked  that  of  Count  Primoli, 
who,  during  the  season,  entertained  the 
whole  of  cosmopolitan  Rome  in  his  luxurious 
villa.  Count  Primoli  was  only  half  an 
Italian.  Through  his  mother,  a  Princess 
Bonaparte,  he  was  French,  of  which  fact  he 
was  very  proud.  He  was  a  delightful  mix- 
ture of  French  wit  and  Italian  gaiety  and 
hospitality.  Absolutely  everyone  went  to 
his  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays !  The  dip- 
lomatic world,  famous  Italian  writers,  French 
painters  and  journalists,  celebrated  singers, 
Indian  princes,  American  millionaires,  Rus- 
sians, Swedes,  and  Englishmen.  Romans 
of  the  higher  circles  visited  him  with  plea- 
sure, even  though  they  disapproved  of  his 
cosmopolitanism.  Count  Primoli  was  undis- 
213 


2i4  THE  EMIGRANT 

mayed  by  this  disapproval,  for  he  well  knew 
what  a  service  he  was  rendering  to  society. 

Gloomy  dullards  never  see  anything  in 
receptions  and  other  social  gatherings  but 
frivolous  distractions,  necessary,  perhaps,  to 
youth,  but  positively  reprehensible  when 
indulged  in  by  older  people.  In  truth,  how- 
ever, balls  and  parties  of  every  description 
are  indispensable  to  all  human  beings  and  to 
the  maintenance  of  their  moral  and  mental 
health.  A  man  who  leads  a  solitary  confined 
existence  loses  his  equilibrium.  He  ceases 
to  see  things  in  their  just  perspective,  ex- 
aggerates and  misunderstands  everything, 
looks  at  life  tragically,  and  makes  mountains 
out  of  mole-hills. 

As  soon  as  he  leaves  off  isolating  himself, 
comes  in  contact  with  other  people,  ex- 
changes ideas  with  them,  laughs  and  talks  a 
little,  his  mental  balance  is  restored,  and  the 
mountains  become  mole-hills  again,  Also, 
the  more  various  are  the  people  he  meets, 
the  more  his  mind  broadens  and  develops. 
People  who  exclusively  frequent  their  own 
immediate  circles,  be  they  aristocratic  or 


THE  EMIGRANT  215 

otherwise,  invariably  grow  dull  and  stupid. 
That  is  why  the  hospitable  host  who  receives 
very  mixed  gatherings  renders  a  great  ser- 
vice to  society  —  though  society  itself  is 
shortsighted  enough  not  to  recognize  this 
service. 

To  receive  on  a  large  scale  is  not  as  easy 
as  people  think.  It  by  no  means  suffices  to 
be  rich  and  to  issue  invitations  broadcast. 
The  principal  thing  is  to  know  how  to  receive 
one's  guests,  an  accomplishment  attainable 
only  on  the  two  following  conditions :  Aris- 
tocratic extraction  and  love  of  humanity.  At 
least  three  or  four  generations  of  well-born 
and  wealthy  people  accustomed  to  social 
surroundings  are  needed  for  the  production 
of  a  good  host.  Everyone  who  has  been  in 
the  house  of  a  nouveau  riche  knows  that  he 
felt,  on  that  occasion,  as  though  he  were  in  a 
restaurant.  The  hosts  did  not  know  how  to 
greet  their  visitors,  nor  how  to  introduce  or 
unite  them,  so  the  latter  ate  and  drank,  and 
having  witnessed  what  entertainment  was 
provided  for  them,  left,  sometimes  even  for- 
getting to  say  good-bye  to  the  hosts.  A 


216  THE  EMIGRANT 

love  of  humanity  is  as  indispensable  to  a 
good  host  as  blue  blood,  and  Count  Primoli 
may  be  said  to  have  been  richly  endowed 
with  both  these  qualifications.  He  was  a 
true  "  Grand  Seigneur,"  and  knew  how  to 
make  his  guests  feel  at  home.  He  sincerely 
loved  them  all,  and  wished  to  give  them 
pleasure.  There  were  some  vulgar  people 
who  made  fun  of  his  charming  cordiality. 
Had  he  forgotten  to  invite  them,  or  had  he 
treated  them  with  lofty  disdain,  they  would 
immediately  have  begun  to  respect  him. 
Nice  people,  however,  valued  his  kind  heart,, 
and  took  no  notice  of  the  silly  anecdotes  that 
rumour  spread  about  him. 

Like  all  ideal  hosts,  Count  Primoli  loved  his 
beautiful  villa,  and  never  tired  of  improving  it. 

"  Je  veux  que  ma  maison  ne  ressemble  a 
nulle  autre,"  he  said  to  his  friends.  t 

This  was  not  easy  to  attain,  since,  in  our 
day,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  invent  anything 
really  new  or  original.  Thanks  to  railways, 
steamships,  newspapers,  and  journals,  life 
grows  every  day  more  level  and  common- 
place. Almost  all  the  world  lives,  eats,  and 


THE  EMIGRANT  217 

dresses  alike.  The  women  of  Greenland 
know  the  latest  fashions  as  well  as  their  Pari- 
sian sisters.  The  cannibals  of  Central  Asia, 
imitating  English  lords,  put  on  smoking- 
suits  when  they  sit  down  to  eat  their  roasted 
neighbours.  The  aristocratic  drawing-rooms 
of  Pekin  are  furnished  like  those  of  Madrid. 
Dinners,  balls,  receptions,  are  alike  every- 
where, and  people  travel  from  one  end  of 
the  earth  to  the  other  noticing  hardly  any 
difference. 

Count  Primoli,  however,  managed  to  attain 
his  object,  and  his  receptions,  once  witnessed, 
were  not  easily  forgotten. 

Already,  on  driving  up  to  the  entrance  of 
his  villa,  one  felt  a  sense  of  gaiety  and  plea- 
sure. The  smalt  covered  courtyard  was  car- 
peted for  the  occasion  and  was  decorated 
with  flowers  and  the  Bonaparte  arms.  A 
majestic  outdoor  servant,  theatrically  attired, 
received  the  carriages  as  they  drove  up.  In 
the  square  hall,  on  each  side  of  the  door, 
stood  rows  of  footmen,  in  long  gold-embroid- 
ered satin  tail-coats,  knee  breeches,  white 
silk  stockings,  and  buckled  shoes,  an  original. 


THE  EMIGRANT 

old,  and  now  extinct  French  fashion  of  dress- 
ing house-servants. 

The  costumes  of  these  footmen,  indeed, 
were  so  splendid,  that  many  people  were  sure 
they  must  be  original  ancient  liveries  of  the 
Bonaparte  family,  and  ought  to  be  in  glass 
cases  in  a  museum.  Perhaps  this  was  true  ; 
but  it  is  nevertheless  a  fact  that  the  liveries 
were  much  more  effective  and  much  more 
clearly  remembered  on  the  shoulders  of  foot- 
men than  they  would  have  been  had  they 
been  hidden  in  a  museum.  The  guests,  on 
arrival,  felt  that  they  had  left  their  humdrum 
daily  existence  outside  the  door,  and  that 
they  had  entered  the  enchanted  realms  of 
fairyland.  Like  children  who  expect  a  Christ- 
mas-tree and  surprises,  they  crossed  the  hall, 
with  its  wonderful  arm-chairs  of  velvet  and 
cloth  of  gold,  and  its  enormous  sofa,  covered 
with  fur  rugs  and  decorated  with  masks  from 
Greek  tragedy.  Then  up  the  staircase,  over 
the  balustrade  of  which  were  thrown  priceless 
brocades  of  all  shades  and  colours,  the  walls 
being  hung  with  Chinese  embroideries  and 
fans  of  peacock-feathers. 


THE  EMIGRANT  219 

Upstairs,  the  elegant  drawing-rooms,  with 
their  pink  curtains  and  gilt  furniture,  were 
wonderful  and  interesting  museums  of  Napo- 
leonic souvenirs.  Count  Primoli  honoured 
the  memory  of  his  famous  great-uncle,  Napo- 
leon I.,  and  carefully  preserved  all  Napoleonic 
relics.  There  were  masks  and  miniatures  of 
the  great  Emperor,  and  other  ancient  family 
treasures,  jewelled  combs,  fans,  lace,  snuff- 
boxes, letters,  seals,  and  silhouettes.  In  a 
prominent  place  stood  a  large  glass  case, 
brilliantly  illuminated,  containing  two  dresses : 
one  of  green  velvet,  embroidered  with  gold, 
from  the  wardrobe  of  the  Empress  Josephine, 
and  the  other  of  lace  over  a  pink  foundation, 
the  priceless  robe  of  Marie  Louise.  At  the  side 
lay  fans  and  satin  slippers,  to  match  the 
dresses.  On  the  walls  of  the  room  were 
shelves,  and  on  them  signed  photographs  of 
the  present-day  members  of  the  Bonaparte 
family. 

Another  remarkable  and  charming  pecu- 
liarity of  the  villa  was  the  wealth  of  flowers 
with  which  it  was  always  decorated.  Magni- 
ficent azaleas  of  all  shades  stood  about  every- 


220  THE  EMIGRANT 

where,  garlands  of  lilac  were  suspended  from 
one  chandelier  to  the  other,  and  other  gar- 
lands of  hyacinths,  roses,  and  violets,  sur- 
rounded the  glass  cases,  wound  themselves 
round  the  shelves,  and  framed  the  looking- 
glasses. 

"  Quella  fantasmorgia  dei  fiore !"  laughed 
Roman  Princesses  and  Countesses,  as  they 
entered.  It  is  strange  that  Roman  women, 
who  are  surrounded  by  flowers  that  grow  in 
the  open  air  all  the  year  round,  do  not  really 
care  for  them,  and  only  decorate  their  rooms 
with  them  because  it  is  the  fashion,  and  be- 
cause it  pleases  foreigners.  Count  Primoli, 
however,  was  a  great  lover  of  flowers,  and  so 
completely  filled 'his  villa  with  them  that  one 
grew  faint  with  the  sweetness  of  their  over- 
powering fragrance.  The  air,  indeed,  was 
full  of  something  romantic  and  reminiscent — 
one  thought  of  old  Italy  and  the  Renaissance. 

"  Quand  je  vais  chez  le  Comte  Primoli," 
said  a  foreign  lady  once,  "j'ai  toujours  en  vie 
de  parler  en  vers,  et  de  demander  un  sorbet 
aux  domestiques" — and  there  were  many  who 
shared  this  impression. 


THE  EMIGRANT  221 

The  crowd  at  these  receptions  was  always 
composed  of  the  most  varied  cosmopolitan 
elements.  There  was  the  Chinese  Ambas- 
sador, who,  having  but  yesterday  cut  off  his 
"pigtail,"  had  thrown  off  his  flowered  robe, 
and  wore  European  dress  clothes  with  the  ease 
and  chic  of  a  London  clubman.  There  was 
the  American  Ambassador,  whose  quiet  dig- 
nity stood  out  in  relief  against  the  noisy  vul- 
garity of  his  numerous  compatriots.  There 
were  members  of  all  the  Embassies  with  their 
wives,  the  latter  attired,  according  to  the 
custom  of  luxurious  Rome,  in  beautiful  Paris 
dresses,  low-necked,  and  even  in  some  cases 
set  off  by  wonderful  diamond  ornaments  or 
tiaras.  All  Western  women  consider  them- 
selves queens,  and  by  no  means  object  to 
sometimes  wearing  crowns,  as  a  sign  of  their 
high  rank. 

Loveliest  of  all,  however,  was  the  Russian 

singer  L ,  recently  arrived  in  Rome  to  fulfil 

an  engagement  at  the  Costanzi  theatre.  Per- 
fectly dressed,  and  wearing  wonderful  pearls, 
she  was  modest,  dignified,  and  charming.  The 
arrival  of  the  famous  French  painter,  Carolus 


222  THE  EMIGRANT 

Duran,  was  greeted  by  exclamations  from  all 
sides  :  "  Comment  allez-vous,  cher  maitre  ? 
Quel  bonheur  de  vous  voir !"  But,  as  was  to 
be  expected  from  a  painter,  the  great  French- 
man was  immediately  attracted  by  the  beau- 
tiful singer  ;  and  the  latter,  having  previously 
announced  that  she  never  sang  in  private 
houses,  offered,  on  learning  that  the  charming 
and  universally  beloved  old  man  had  never 
heard  her,  to  make  an  exception  for  his 
benefit.  The  painter  was  so  sympathetic  and 
irresistible,  that  no  one  was  surprised  at  her 
wish  to  sing  to  him.  He  was,  indeed,  the 
personification  of  all  that  is  best  in  France  : 
industrious  democracy,  firm  principles,  and 
profound  belief  in  God  and  in  the  triumph  of 
right  and  justice. 

An  excellent  tenor  and  an  experienced  ac- 
companist, never  very  far  away  in  Rome,  were 
immediately  forthcoming.  They  disappeared 

for  a  moment  with  Madame  L ,  and  then 

returned  to  the  principal  drawing-room,  into 
which  all  the  visitors  crowded  to  admire  and 
enjoy  what  was  sure  to  be  an  exquisite  per- 
formance. 


THE  EMIGRANT  223 

The  artists  sang  excerpts  from  "Traviata" 
and  "  Tosca,"  and,  as  her  last  number, 
Madame  L gave  some  Russian  melodies. 

The  applause  was  rapturous.  With  re- 
markable warmth  and  kindness,  many  of  the 
listeners  congratulated  not  only  L her- 
self, but  also  all  the  other  Russians  who  hap- 
pened to  be  present.  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  Irene  realized  that  it  was  possible  to 
be  proud  of  someone  else's  success. 

"  These  foreigners,"  observed  the  Bul- 
garian Minister  to  Irene,  in  perfect  Russian, 
"  always  imagine  that  we  Slavs  live  on  tallow 
candles.  It  is  good  to  be  able  to  show  them 
what  our  songs  are  like,  and  our  singers  and 
our  national  Slavonic  genius." 

While  listening  to  L ,  Irene  had  ob- 
served the  public,  and  had  noticed  many 
envious  glances  levelled  at  the  singer. 
11  Why  should  she  have  everything  ?"  they 
seemed  to  say — "  beauty,  talent,  splendid 
dresses,  and  jewels !" 

Irene  would  have  liked  to  console  them 
with  the  answer  that  every  singer,  every 
actress,  indeed  every  great  talent  is  endowed 


224  THE  EMIGRANT 

by  fate  not  only  with  wealth  and  success, 
but  also  with  a  profound  capacity  for  suffer- 
ing. No  one  can  sing  well,  play  well,  or 
write  well,  without  living  through  moments 
of  the  deepest  pain  and  anguish.  Every  real 
talent  has  known  times  of  torturing  depres- 
sion when  the  heart  in  its  agony  has  cried 
out  to  God :  "  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken 
me  ?  What  have  I  done  that  I  should 
suffer  so  ?" 

And  then,  at  the  very  darkest  moment, 
suddenly,  the  veil  is  torn  from  their  eyes ! 
Truth,  with  her  flaming  torch,  stands  before 
them,  and  they  understand  that  God  sends 
them  suffering  to  strengthen  and  ennoble 
their  talent,  that  it  may  touch  men's  hearts 
and  show  to  tired  wanderers  on  earth  glimpses 
of  heaven. 

Having  once  grasped  this  fact,  men  and 
women  of  talent  humbly  bow  their  heads 
before  God's  will.  Uncomplainingly  and 
nobly  they  bear  the  insatiable  yearning  that 
tears  their  souls,  accepting  success  with 
indifference,  since  they  know  that  their  own 
personal  fame  is  but  a  secondary  matter,  and 


THE  EMIGRANT  225 

plays  but  a  minor  part  in  their  mission  on 
•earth. 

Irene  felt  that  there  comes  a  moment  in 
the  life  not  only  of  every  artist,  writer,  or  musi- 
cian, but  also  in  that  of  every  thinking  human 
being,  when  nature  asks  him  her  great  ques- 
tion :  "Canst  thou  relinquish  personal  interests 
and  help  me  in  my  work  for  humanity  ?" 
On  his  answer  depends  his  soul's  serenity, 
the  peace  of  his  old  age,  and  his  faith  in  God 
and  the  justice  of  God's  ways.  For  should 
he  indeed  refuse,  should  he  harden  his  heart 
against  his  brothers,  a  despair  so  boundless 
will  take  possession  of  his  soul  that  there  will 
be  no  escape  or  loophole  but — suicide. 

Irene  wondered,  with  a  shudder,  what  her 
•own  answer  to  the  fateful  question  would  be. 


XV 

"  LET  us  go  to  the  Palazzo  M ,"  suggested 

Gzhatski  to  Irene  one  bright,  sunny  morn- 
ing towards  the  middle  of  March.  "  They 
have  a  very  interesting  family  festival  there 
to-day,  and  except  in  Rome  you  will  nowhere 
see  anything  similar." 

So  they  drove  to  the  old  quarter  of  Rome, 
where  most  of  the  palaces  of  the  Roman 
aristocracy  are  to  be  found. 

The  exterior  of  the  Palazzo  M was  in 

no  sense  strikingly  beautiful.  It  was  built 
in  something  like  a  semi-circle,  which  fact 
seemed  in  old  times,  when  the  street  was 
narrow,  perfectly  natural.  Now,  however, 
the  Corso  being  straight  and  broad,  the 
effect  is  peculiar.  At  some  time  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  Saint  Philip  of  Neri  had 
worked  a  miracle  in  this  palace,  having 

226 


THE  EMIGRANT  227 

brought  back  to  life  a  dead  child  of  the 
M family. 

Saint  Philip  had  entered  the  room  a 

moment  after  little  Paolo  M had  breathed 

his  last,  and  had  found  the  parents  sobbing 
with  grief  and  despair  over  the  body  of  their 
beloved  boy.  Touched  by  their  sorrow,  the 
Saint  had  commanded  the  departed  one  to 
arise,  upon  which  Paolo  had  immediately  come 
back  to  life.  "  Why  have  you  brought  me 
back  to  earth  ?"  he  had  asked  his  parents,  in 
tones  of  reproach.  "I  was  so  happy  there!" 
Struck  by  these  words,  the  parents  had 
prayed  Saint  Philip  to  let  Paolo  die  again, 
and  the  Saint,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  had 
released  the  innocent  young  soul,  that  it 
might  fly  back  to  a  happier  world. 

This  miracle  had  been  performed  on  a 
1 6th  of  March,  and,  to  the  present  day,  the 
top  floor  of  the  palazzo,  with  the  chapel  in 
which  the  remains  of  Saint  Philip  repose,  is 
thrown  open  every  year  on  that  date  to  the 
people  of  Rome.  In  an  unbroken  stream 
the  neighbouring  poor  with  their  little  child- 
ren, monks  and  nuns,  as  well  as  the  inevitable 


228  THE  EMIGRANT 

tourists,  ascend  and  descend  the  splendid 
staircase.  The  entrance  to  the  palace  is 
decorated  for  the  occasion  with  flags  and 
brightly- coloured  draperies.  In  the  doorway 
stands  a  servant  in  gold-embroidered  uni- 
form, the  courtyard  is  crowded,  and  heads 
peep  from  all  the  little  windows  of  the  third 
floor. 

The  rooms  leading  to  the  chapel  are  low, 
with  wood-panelled  ceilings,  narrow  windows, 
and  furniture  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  chapel 
itself  is  brilliantly  illuminated.  Women,  one 
after  another,  fall  on  their  knees  and  pray  fer- 
vently. This  is  a  children's  festival,  particu- 
larly dear  to  mothers.  Monks  and  nuns  repeat 
the  legend  in  detail  to  the  assembled  crowd, 
the  Roman  poor  listening  reverently  and  with 
emotion,  the  tourists  looking  on  with  mock- 
ing smiles. 

On  the  same  day,  in  the  great  reception 
rooms  below,  the  princely  M family  re- 
ceives its  friends,  from  four  to  seven.  The 
family  is  of  ancient  and  historic  lineage,  tracing 
its  origin  back  to  pre-Christian  Rome.  Like  all 
the  rest  of  the  Roman  aristocracy  the  princes 


THE  EMIGRANT  229 

are  religious  Catholics,  firm  in  their  allegi- 
ance to  the  Vatican. 

Irene's  gaze  wandered  in  mute  admiration 
round  the  enormous  entrance-hall,  with  its 
magnificent  painted  ceiling,  its  antique  statues, 
and  the  crimson  baldaquin  at  one  of  its  walls. 
Only  the  most  ancient  families  in  Rome  pos- 
sess such  a  baldaquin.  Under  it  stands  the 
chair  reserved  in  old  days  for  the  use  of  the 
Pope,  who  frequently  honoured  noble  Romans 
with  his  visits.  Across  the  balustrade  sur- 
rounding this  throne,  footmen,  in  most  won- 
derful blue  and  cerise  liveries,  were  laying 
the  wraps  of  arriving  visitors,  to  whom  at 
the  same  time  a  house-steward  in  black  dress 
clothes  and  a  heavy  chain  was  handing  a 
visitors'  book  for  signature.  Beyond  the  hall 
could  be  seen  long  enfilades  of  rooms,  with 
magnificent  tapestries,  pictures,  statues,  and 
many  other  ancient  treasures  of  art  not  to 
be  met  with  elsewhere.  Irene  particularly 
noticed  a  jewel-case  in  the  shape  of  a  girl's 
figure  carved  in  wood,  and  coloured. 

The  guests  were  assembled  in  the  principal 
drawing  -  room,  an  immense  room  with  a 


230  THE  EMIGRANT 

painted  wooden  ceiling  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. The  walls  were  hung  with  crimson 
brocade,  and  covered  with  pictures  by  old 
masters.  The  portieres  were  of  heavy  crim- 
son velvet,  the  furniture  was  massive  and 
gilt.  In  the  middle  of  the  room,  over  the 
red  felt  with  which  the  floor  was  covered,  lay 
two  large  white  bear-skins,  the  only  com- 
patriots Irene  met  at  this  reception. 

The   whole    M family   was   present, 

grandfather,  grandmother,  and  grandson  (a 
handsome  boy  of  fifteen,  dressed  in  the  uni- 
form of  one  of  the  Roman  colleges) — even 
an  eight-months-old  infant  in  a  film  of  white 
lace,  presiding  majestically  on  the  knees  of 
his  nurse,  an  Albanian  peasant  woman,  attired 
in  her  picturesque  national  costume.  The 
tiny  prince  seemed  to  be  enjoying  himself 
more  than  anyone  else,  energetically  and 
with  gurgles  of  delight  pulling  the  mous- 
tache of  every  man  and  tearing  off  the  veil 
of  every  lady  who  bent  over  him  !  It  was 
charming  to  see  the  indescribable  tenderness 
with  which  the  whole  family  regarded  this 
latest  representative  of  their  ancient  race  ! 


THE  EMIGRANT  231 

In  general,  the  festival  was  patriarchal  and 
aristocratic  to  the  highest  degree — aristocratic 
in  the  true  fashion  of  ancient  times,  when  the 
nobles,  really  loving  the  people,  befriended 
them  and  opened  their  doors  to  them  on  all 
festive  occasions.  It  was  so  in  all  countries, 
and  that  wholly  un-Christian  and  senseless 
gulf  which  now  separates  one  class  from 
another  only  came  into  being  with  the  for- 
mation of  the  middle  class,  uncertain  of  itself, 
having  no  ground  under  its  feet,  dragging 
hopelessly  after  the  aristocracy,  and  kicking 
back  with  hatred  and  repulsion  the  lower 
classes  from  which  it  had  so  recently  risen. 

At  one  end  of  the  drawing-room  stood  a 
tea  table,  and,  according  to  a  charming 
Roman  custom,  tea,  chocolate,  and  ices  were 
offered  to  the  visitors.  Italians  can  drink 
hot  chocolate  and  eat  ices  almost  at  the  same 
time,  without  dying  ! 

Irene  sat  down  in  a  corner,  and  watched 
the  scene  before  her  with  delighted  interest. 
She  thought  of  how,  in  Petrograd,  anything 
connected  with  Catherine  the  Great  or 
Alexander  I.  was  considered  ancient.  Such 


232  THE  EMIGRANT 

antiquity  might,  here,  in  this  Roman  Palace, 
be  looked  upon  as  positively  modern  !  For 
the  first  time,  Irene  realized  the  youth  of  her 
own  country.  The  proud  girl,  considering 
herself  on  an  equality  with  the  greatest 
Russian  families,  felt  a  little  humiliated  at 
the  thought  that  the  ancestors  of  her  princely 
hosts  once  walked  about  the  Forum  in  togas,, 
took  part  in  the  government  of  ancient  Rome 
and  in  the  creation  of  a  great  art  and  a  great 
literature,  and  gave  their  laws  to  the  whole 
civilized  world.  She  tried  to  picture  to  her- 
self the  Russia  of  that  time :  a  wilderness 
peopled  by  savage  hordes  in  skins  of  wild 
beasts,  nomad  tribes,  wandering  through 
forests  and  swamps  and  deserts.  .  .  . 

Her  dreams  were  interrupted  by  the  old 
Prince,  who,  noticing  that  she  was  alone,  and 
prompted  by  his  antique  and  aristocratic 
sense  of  hospitality,  approached  to  entertain 
her.  Irene  broached  the  subject  of  the 
legend,  and  naively  added  that  she  supposed 
the  chapel  and  adjoining  rooms  were  only 
opened  for  this  one  day  every  year. 

"  No,  indeed,"  answered  the  Prince  with  a 


THE  EMIGRANT  23$ 

smile — "  the  rooms  are  in  constant  use,  and 
our  Chaplain  holds  daily  services  in  the 
chapel." 

Irene  felt  confused,  and  at  the  same  time 
a  curious  feeling  of  envy  came  over  her. 

"  How  happy  these  people  are,"  she 
thought,  to  have  lived  for  so  many  centuries 
in  the  same  town,  in  the  same  house,  sur- 
rounded by  legends  and  traditions  and  the 
shadows  of  their  ancestors !  All  this  is  real 
— they  are  not  masquerading  in  strange  cos- 
tumes and  beliefs  and  customs,  like  emigrants 
of  all  nationalities,  who  spend  their  lives  in 
travelling  North,  South,  East  and  West,  in 
search  of  new  sensations  and  impressions. 
There  came  to  Irene's  mind  the  thought  of 
one  of  her  friends,  a  girl  with  a  mania  for 
having  herself  photographed  in  the  national 
costume  of  every  country  she  visited.  An 
entire  little  shelf  in  Irene's  Petrograd  draw- 
ing -  room  was  covered  with  frames  from 
which  smiled  the  young  girl's  round,  laugh- 
ing, purely  Slavonic  little  face,  here  under 
the  fez  of  a  Crimean  Tartar  maid,  there 
under  a  Spanish  mantilla,  elsewhere  in  the 


234  THE  EMIGRANT 

guise  of  a  Neapolitan  fisher-girl.  Had  not 
Irene's  own  wish  to  enter  a  convent  also 
been  nothing  much  more  than  a  desire  to 
dress  up  in  a  picturesque  costume  ? 

These  thoughts  reminded  her  of  Pere 
Etienne,  and  on  returning  to  her  pension^ 
Irene  wrote  and  asked  him  to  come  and  see 
her.  She  had  seen  very  little  of  him  lately. 
Pere  Etienne  felt  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  change  Irene's  ideas  during  her 
stay  at  Assisi — but,  however  much  he  ques- 
tioned her,  he  could  not  discover  what  that 
something  had  been.  Seeing  that  she  had 
drifted  into  social  life,  he  regretfully  left  off 
paying  her  his  daily  visits.  Like  all  true 
pastors,  he  always  attached  himself  to  his 
spiritual  children,  and  was  sincerely  grieved 
when  the  circumstances  of  life  separated 
him  from  them.  The  warm-hearted  old  man 
now  consoled  himself  with  the  thought  that 
he  had  been  mistaken  in  taking  convent  life 
to  be  Irene's  vocation,  and  that  she  would  be 
happier  if  she  married  her  compatriot.  In 
his  heart,  however,  there  still  lingered  an 
intuition  that  would  not  let  him  believe  in 


THE  EMIGRANT  235 

matrimonial  happiness  for  her.  No  one 
understands  human  nature  better  than  a 
•clever  priest,  who  hears  countless  confessions 
and  looks  into  the  deepest  recesses  of  the 
countless  souls  that  are  laid  bare  before  him. 

On  receiving  Irene's  invitation,  he  went  to 
her  immediately,  and  they  spent  a  charming 
evening  together.  The  convent  in  the  Via 
Gallia  was  not  even  mentioned.  They  spoke 
of  Saint  Philip  of  Neri,  of  his  life  and  his 
pupils,  of  miracles  and  prayer. 

The  following  day  Irene  awoke  in  a  pious 
mood,  and  put  off  Gzhatski,  who  had  arranged 
to  take  her  to  some  local  function.  Gzhat- 
ski, clever  strategist  that  he  was,  guessed 
what  had  happened,  and  hastened  to  create  a 
diversion.  He  disappeared  for  a  time,  made 
mysterious  arrangements,  and  kept  mysterious 
appointments,  and  after  three  days,  arrived 
suddenly  to  inform  Irene  that  Cardinal 

R would  receive  her  in  audience  at 

seven  o'clock  that  evening. 

"  Receive  me !"  exclaimed  Irene  in  sur- 
prise. "  But  why  should  I  go  to  him  ?" 

"  Why  not  make  the  acquaintance  of   a 


236  THE  EMIGRANT 

Cardinal,  once  he  is  kind  enough  to  wish  to* 
receive  you  ?"  answered  Gzhatski.  "  You 
have  decided  to  join  the  Catholic  Church,, 
and  you  ought  to  know  more  of  its  priest- 
hood. Pere  Etienne  alone  is  insufficient — 
there  are  plenty  of  other  enlightened  and 
clever  men  among  the  Roman  priests — they 
are  by  no  means  all  furious  fanatics !" 


XVI 

IRENE  had  to  agree,  and  punctually  at  seven 
o'clock  she  presented  herself  at  the  Cardinal's 
house.  Her  conscience  reproached  her  a 
little  for  troubling  a  man  so  occupied  with 
important  affairs,  but  she  had  heard  so  much 
about  this  famous  Cardinal  that  curiosity  won 
the  day  over  her  scruples. 

Cardinal  R was  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished members  of  the  Papal  Court.  He 
was  nicknamed  "le  Pape  manque,"  because 
at  the  last  election  he  had  received  the 
greatest  number  of  votes.  His  pronounced 
French  sympathies,  however,  had,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  other  Catholic  countries,  stood  in 
his  way,  with  the  result  that,  in  answer  to  his 
election,  the  Austro- Hungarian  Ambassador 
had  announced  the  "  veto  "  of  the  Austrian 
Emperor.  The  amazed  Cardinals,  though 

237 


238  THE  EMIGRANT 

they  had  long  forgotten  this  ancient  privilege 
of  the  Austrian  crown,  were  obliged  to  sub- 
mit, and  the  next  candidate  was  elected  Pope, 
It  is  a  characteristic  fact  that  Pius  X.  was  so 
annoyed  at  his  election  that,  on  becoming 
Pope  against  his  will,  his  first  action  was  to- 
annul  for  ever  the  Austrian  right  of  "  veto." 

Remembering  this  episode,  Irene  involun- 
tarily felt  a  great  respect  for  the  man  who 
had  had  the  courage  of  his  opinions  and 
sympathies  to  the  extent  of  paying  for  them 
by  losing  the  Papacy.  Such  honesty  seemed 
hardly  in  keeping  with  the  traditional  spirit  of 
intrigue  and  deceit  with  which  the  Papal  court 
was  supposed  to  be  permeated,  and  which 
Irene  had  so  frequently  heard  discussed  in 
Russia. 

The  Cardinal  lived  in  a  small  detached 
house,  /within  the  precincts  of  the  Vatican, 
and  Irene  was  struck,  by  no  means  for  the 
first  time,  by  the  resemblance  between  these 
Vatican  houses  and  courtyards,  and  the  inner 
courts  and  arch-priest's  dwellings  of  Russian 
monasteries.  There  was  in  both  the  same 
sense  of  chill  and  isolation  and  lifelessness. 


THE  EMIGRANT  239 

Even  the  waiting-room  into  which  a  slow  old 
servant  led  Irene  was  exactly  like  the  room  of 
a  Russian  monastic  priest.  The  same  clumsy- 
wooden  furniture  upholstered  in  red  velvet, 
the  same  religious  pictures.  The  only  things 
that  were  missing  were  the  typical  and  inevit- 
able strip  of  canvas  that  runs  like  a  pathway 
right  across  the  floors  of  all  our  Russian 
priestly  houses,  and  the  extraordinary  variety 
of  worsted  cushions,  with  their  wonderful 
patterns  of  fantastic  animals  and  flowers, 
embroidered  for  our  priests  by  pious  Russian 
parishioners. 

A  young  secretary  twice  passed  through 
the  waiting-room,  throwing,  each  time,  a  quick 
but  scrutinizing  glance  at  Irene.  Finally , 
unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,  he 
approached  her,  with  a  charming  smile  : 

"Voudriez  vous  me  dire,  Mademoiselle, " 
he  inquired,  "  le  motif  pour  lequel  vous 
desirez  voir  Son  Eminence? 

Irene  did  not  know  how  to  answer.  She 
really  could  not  say  that  she  had  come  simply 
to  pacify  a  troublesome  friend  ! 

"  J'ai  entendu  parler  de  la  sympathie  que 


-24o  THE  EMIGRANT 

Son  Eminence  6prouve  pour  les  Russes,"  she 
stammered  vaguely. 

"Oh  oui!  Oh  oui!"  said  the  secretary, 
nodding  his  head.  "  Les  sympathies  de  Son 
Eminence  pour  la  Russie  sont  bien  connues. 
Cependant,  Mademoiselle,  il  me  semble  que 
ATOUS  devez  avoir  une  raison  plus  .  .  .  plus  .  .  ." 

The  secretary  was  evidently  at  a  loss  to 
find  the  right  word.  Noticing  that  he  was 
regarding  her  enormous  muff  with  interest, 
Irene  remembered  that  an  attempt  to  assassi- 
nate a  highly-placed  personage,  had  recently 
been  made  in  Rome. 

"  I  understand  your  anxiety,"  she  remarked. 
41  There  are  visitors  who  arrive  with  a  bomb 
in  their  muffs !"  With  these  words,  as  though 
accidentally,  she  made  a  movement  with  her 
muff,  bringing  it  close  to  the  secretary's  eyes. 
He  glanced  sharply  into  it,  and  was  evidently 
appeased. 

"Oh!  certes,  Son  Eminence  sera  tres 
satisfaite  de  vous  voir,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
•said.  "  Veuillez  attendre  quelques  instants 
-au  salon  ;  Son  Eminence  ne  tardera  pas  a 


rentrer." 


THE  EMIGRANT  241 

The  waiting-room,  in  the  meantime,  was 
filling  with  people.  An  old  Monsignor 
entered,  and  Irene  bowed  to  him.  To  her 
surprise,  however,  he  not  only  did  not  reply, 
but  never  even  glanced  in  her  direction. 
Another  priest  entered,  and  again  the  same 
thing  happened.  Then  came  three  Capuchin 
monks  who  made  obvious  efforts  to  look  at  any- 
thing but  Irene,  and  sat  down  at  the  furthest 
possible  point  from  her.  The  proud,  sensi- 
tive woman  felt  deeply  offended  and  annoyed. 

"  Do  they  take  me  for  a  leper  ?"  she  thought 
angrily,  "  or  am  I  so  hideous  that  it  disgusts 
them  to  look  at  me  ?"  Suddenly,  however, 
a  humorous  idea  flashed  through  her  mind. 
Irene  had  so  long  ago  left  off  thinking  of  herself 
as  in  any  sense  an  attractive  woman,  that  the 
sudden  idea  of  being  regarded  by  anyone  in 
the  light  of  a  possible  temptation,  caused  her, 
•quite  unexpectedly,  to  burst  into  a  loud  peal 
of  laughter.  The  monks  frowned,  and  Irene 
hastened  to  hide  her  laughing  face  in  the 
muff  that  had  so  alarmed  the  young  secretary. 

At  this  moment  there  burst  into  the  room, 
noisily,  and  talking  in  strident  tones,  two 

16 


242  THE  EMIGRANT 

lean  and  yellow  English  old  maids  with  scant 
greyish  hair,  and  enormous  fashionable  hats. 
Chattering  fast  and  animatedly,  they  sat 
down  exactly  opposite  the  Capuchins,  and 
robbed  these  victims  of  the  only  blank  wall 
at  which  they  could  safely  gaze  without 
jeopardizing  the  salvation  of  their  souls. 

What  were  the  poor  monks  to  do  ?  The 
devil  evidently  had  awful  designs  on  them 
that  evening,  and  terrible  temptation  peered 
at  them  from  every  corner  of  the  Cardinal's 
waiting-room.  As  though  by  order,  they  all 
lowered  their  eyelids,  and  remained,  as  though 
turned  into  stone,  with  their  gaze  riveted  on 
the  floor. 

The  door  opened,  and  Irene  was  asked  to 
pass  into  the  Cardinal's  presence. 

A  dimly  illuminated  ante-room  led  into 
the  drawing-room.  Here,  the  furniture  was 
a  little  more  comfortable,  and  there  were 
pictures  and  flowers.  The  cardinal  stood  at 
his  writing-table,  not  in  his  red  robes,  as 
Irene  had  expected,  but  in  black  with  narrow 
red  edgings.  A  somewhat  worn  red  cardinal's 
cap  lay  on  the  table.  The  great  priest  looked 


THE  EMIGRANT  243 

at  Irene  in  silence,  and  with  a  questioning 
expression.  She  approached,  kissed  the  ring 
on  his  left  hand,  and  thanked  him  for  the 
honour  he  was  conferring  on  her  by  receiving 
her.  He  smiled,  and  the  man  of  the  world 
awoke  in  him.  Asking  Irene  to  sit  down  on  a 
small  sofa,  he  began  to  question  her  about 
Russia,  his  words  revealing  a  great  know- 
ledge of  Russian  Church  matters.  He  seemed 
specially  interested  in  a  certain  small  group 
of  Russian  priests,  who  had  recently  been 
sent  by  the  Synod  to  do  penance  in  far-dis- 
tant monasteries. 

"  Mais  enfin,  que  veulent-ils  ?  Que  de- 
mandent-ils  ?  Quel  est  le  but  de  leur  re- 
volte  ?"  asked  the  Cardinal. 

"  I  think,"  answered  Irene  simply,  "  that 
they  wanted  to  convoke  a  council,  with  the 
object  of  reinstating  the  Patriarchy." 

The  Cardinal  frowned,  and  a  shadow 
passed  over  his  face.  "Totally  unneces- 
sary," he  muttered  somewhat  hurriedly. 
"  Totally  unnecessary."  And  he  changed  the 
subject,  asking  Irene  what  she  had  seen  in 
Rome,  and  how  she  liked  the  Catacombs. 


244  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  I  like  the  Russian  catacombs  much 
better,"  she  answered. 

"  Yes — I  know — you  mean  the  Kieff  ones. 
But  they  date  only  from  the  ninth  century. 
Remember,"  exclaimed  the  Cardinal  raptur- 
ously, "  that  here,  in  Rome,  the  earliest 
Christian  martyrs  are  buried." 

Irene  asked  where  the  remains  of  the 
Apostle  Andrew  were  preserved. 

"  Andrew  ?"  repeated  the  Cardinal,  stop- 
ping to  think  a  moment.  tf  Yes — the  head  is 
in  the  shrine  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the  rest  of 
the  remains  are  distributed  among  various 
churches." 

"  I  ask  this,"  explained  Irene,  in  answer  to 
the  Cardinal's  questioning  glance,  "  because 
the  Apostle  Andrew  is  particularly  dear  to 
Russians,  having  been  the  first  to  teach  us 
Christianity." 

"Of  course — I  know !  Andrew,  the  brother 
of  Saint  Peter,"  said  the  Cardinal  with  a 
subtle  smile,  as  though  wishing  to  underline 
the  fact  that  Rome  and  Russia  had  received 
Christianity  from  two  brothers.  "  Well,  and 
what  churches  have  you  seen  in  Rome  ?" 


THE  EMIGRANT  245 

Irene  mentioned  several  of  the  most 
famous. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  church  of  Saint 
Cecilia?"  asked  the  Cardinal  a  little  uncer- 
tainly. "  No  ?" — he  was  clearly  disappointed. 
"  You  should  go  there  without  fail.  It  is  my 
church — it  has  some  very  interesting  subter- 
ranean passages." 

A  tender  smile  suddenly  illuminated  the 
stern  features  of  this  old  and  serious  man. 
Irene  afterwards  ascertained  that  Cardinal  R. 
had  spent  his  whole  fortune  on  the  restora- 
tion and  preservation  of  the  church  of  Saint 
Cecilia.  She  went  to  see  this  church  on  the 
following  day.  The  ancient  shrine  gleamed 
with  cleanliness  and  freshness.  Small  electric 
lamps  burned  before  the  marble  statue  of 
Saint  Cecilia,  and  flowers  stood  before  each 
of  her  images.  Irene  visited  the  underground 
sepulchre  that  holds  the  remains  of  the  Saint, 
and  was  charmed  with  the  elegant  new 
chapel,  its  small,  slim  columns,  and  its  exqui- 
site mosaics  in  the  Byzantine  style.  Thus 
might  one  decorate  and  beautify  the  tomb  of 
a  beloved  daughter.  On  entering  this  chapel 


246  THE  EMIGRANT 

Irene  understood  the  true  character  of  Car- 
dinal R ,  and  knew  that  his  stern  exterior 

concealed  a  tender,  loving  heart,  which,  in 
the  absence  of  personal  family  ties,  had 
ardently  attached  itself  to  a  poetical  shadow, 
to  someone's  pure  and  lovely  image,  to  some- 
one's spotless  and  sacred  memory. 

Gzhatski  was  much  pleased  with  the  im- 
pression produced  upon  Irene  by  Cardinal 

R ,  and  announced  that  she  must  now 

make  the  acquaintance  of  Monsignor  Lefrene, 
of  whom  all  Rome  was  talking. 

Monsignor  Lefrene,  a  clever  and  highly 
intellectual  Frenchman,  had  written  a  history 
of  the  Christian  Church.  The  book  had  been 
published,  sold,  and  widely  read,  when  sud- 
denly the  Jesuit  Fathers,  who  always  play 
the  part  of  defenders  of  Catholic  purity,  an- 
nounced that  Lefrene's  history  was  dangerous 
to  the  faithful. 

"It  contains  nothing  contrary  to  Catholic 
dogmas,"  they  wrote,  "but  its  whole  tone  and 
tendency  is  offensive,  and  likely  to  do  much 
harm." 

The  book  was  put  on  the  Index,  and  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  247 

author  had  to  do  penance.  Needless  to  say, 
this  excess  of  zeal  on  the  part  of  the  Jesuit 
Fathers  did  much  more  harm  than  could 
ever  have  been  done  by  poor  Monsignor 
Lefrene.  Few  people,  indeed,  took  the 
trouble  to  read  the  condemned  book  ;  but 
everyone  talked  about  it,  and  the  idea  became 
prevalent  that  Lefrene  held  the  same  views 
as  those  for  which  the  Orthodox  Church  had 
excommunicated  Tolstoi,  which  probability 
proved  that  heresies  had  stolen  into  the  fold 
of  Rome.  Believers  spoke  of  Lefrene  with 
horror,  and  demanded  that  he  should  be  ex- 
pelled from  the  priesthood.  Atheists,  on  the 
contrary,  rubbed  their  hands  in  triumph. 
And  all  this  storm  in  a  teacup  had  been 
raised  by  nothing  more  serious  that  Mon- 
signor Lefrene's  sense  of  humour.  Minds 
such  as  his,  indeed,  are  comparatively  rare, 
and  are  of  true  and  deep  value  to  society.  A 
witty,  well-aimed  pleasantry  may  often  point 
out  to  us  very  clearly  the  absurdity  or 
grotesqueness  of  some  pet  idea  or  enthusiasm, 
and  by  so  doing  may  bring  us  sharply  back 
to  reason.  Thousands  of  people  owe  their 


248  THE  EMIGRANT 

abandonment  of  some  baneful  caprice  to  a 
chance  word  of  ridicule  ;  yet  it  is  a  strange 
fact  that  a  satirical  mind  always  renders  its 
owner  unpopular.  The  public  may  perhaps 
sometimes  forgive  a  satirical  writer  of  short 
stories,  but  a  satirical  priest — never !  People 
will  not  understand  that  when  Nature  endows 
her  children  with  talent,  she  cannot  foresee 
what  uniform  they  will  wear  later  on. 

Monsignor  Lefrene's  sparkling  epigrams 
were  repeated  all  over  Rome,  and  cost  him,, 
according  to  rumour,  the  Cardinal's  hat.  Not 
that  the  witty  Monsignor  was  very  anxious 
for  this  honour.  Truly  talented  people  always 
value  God's  gift  to  them  above  all  earthly 
honours,  and  a  successful  epigram  gives  as 
much  personal  satisfaction  to  a  wit,  as  a 
successful  novel  to  a  writer.  Both,  indeed, 
are  on  the  same  level.  It  is,  however,  un- 
doubted that  popular  malice,  animosity,  and 
failure  to  understand  or  recognize  their  genius, 
can  deeply  wound  a  talented  nature ;  and  it  is 
strange  that  these  carping  tongues  often  dis- 
tinguish themselves,  in  their  own  immediate 
circles,  by  delicacy  and  charity. 


THE  EMIGRANT  249- 

Monsignor  Lefrene  occupied  the  second 
floor  of  one  of  Rome's  most  splendid  palaces. 
The  magnificent  antique  ceilings  and  walls, 
the  beautiful  furniture,  the  wealth  of  sunlight 
that  filled  this  luxurious  abode,  seemed  more 
suited  to  the  tastes  of  a  scientist  philosopher 
than  to  those  of  a  priest.  In  a  line  with 
the  reception-rooms  was  a  covered  terrace, 
full  of  tropical  plants,  among  which  strayed 
a  number  of  tame  pigeons.  Irene  loved 
pigeons,  and  stepped  out  on  the  terrace  to 
observe  them  more  closely.  It  was  here  that 
Monsignor  Lefrene  found  her,  and  greeted 
her  with  his  always  humorous  smile,  and 
a  quick  glance  from  his  keen,  intelligent 
eyes. 

"  I  am  admiring  your  birds,  Monsignor," 
said  Irene  as  they  shook  hands. 

"  Are  you  ?"  he  answered.  "  But  have 
you  seen  my  Tiber  ?  Look  how  beautiful  it 
is  through  this  window."  And  the  Monsignor 
pointed  to  the  yellow  muddy  waters  that 
always  filled  Irene  with  disgust,  when  com- 
paring it  with  the  clear,  blue  rivers  of  Russia^ 

The  conversation  turned  to  the  Orthodoxy, 


250  THE  EMIGRANT 

and  Lefrene  showed  himself  to  be  like  most 
Catholic  priests,  closely  acquainted  with 
Russian  Church  matters.  In  addition,  he  had 
many  friends  among  the  higher  Russian 
clergy.  Irene  purposely  began  to  speak  of 
the  suggested  Orthodox  Church  Council, 
which  she  had  discussed  also  with  Cardinal 
R .  Monsignor  looked  displeased. 

"  But  why  do  you  want  a  council  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why?"  exclaimed  Irene.  "One  of  our 
great  writers  has  said  that  the  Orthodox 
Church  has  been  paralyzed  since  the  days  of 
Peter  the  Great.  With  the  election  of  a 
patriarch,  she  may  perhaps  recover,  and  pro- 
nounce some  new  word." 

Lefr&ne  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh  !  La  nouvelle  verite  ne  sortira  jamais 
<Je  Teglise,"  he  remarked  with  conviction. 

Irene  was  amazed. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  stammered  ques- 
tioningly. 

Monsignor  smiled.  "Comment  voulez  vous 
qu'un  pr£tre  emette  une  id£e  nouvelle,"  he 
said,  "  quand  la  coupole  de  Saint  Pierre  pese 
sur  des  epaules  ?" 


THE  EMIGRANT  251 

u  Yes,  but  we  Russians  have  no  '  Saint 
Peter's,'  "  observed  Irene  quietly. 

"  Eh  bien,  vous  avez  la  coupole  de  Moscou  t 
Dans  chaque  religion,  toujours  une  coupole 
•quelconque  pesera  sur  le  pretre  et  lui  fermera 
la  bouche  " — and  a  deep  sadness  trembled  in 
poor  Lefrene's  voice. 

"  But  even  if  so,"  said  Irene,  "  the  council 
might  improve  the  education  of  our  clergy,  and 
teach  them  to  cultivate  warmer  relations  with 
their  flocks."  And  in  her  turn  she  could  not 
restrain  the  note  of  personal  sorrow  and  regret 
that  echoed  in  her  words. 

"  Oh,  I  have  heard  all  those  complaints 
before,  especially  from  your  late  philoso- 
pher, Vladimir  Solovyof,"  replied  Monsignor. 
•*'  He  once  related  me  a  very  character- 
istic legend  in  this  connection,"  and,  with 
his  subtle  smile,  Lefrene  repeated  the  legend 
of  Saint  Nicholas,  supposed  to  be  of  Russian 
•origin. 

Saint  Nicholas,  accompanied  by  the 
Reverend  Cassian,  once  came  down  from 
heaven,  on  a  visit  to  earth.  On  the  great 
highway  they  met  a  poor  peasant,  the  wheels 


252  THE  EMIGRANT 

of  whose  cart  had  become  embedded  in  the 
mud  of  the  roadside,  and  he  was  vainly- 
exerting  himself  almost  beyond  his  strength 
to  extricate  them. 

"  Let   us   help   him,"   said  the  charitable 
.  Saint  Nicholas. 

"  No,  that  is  impossible,"  replied  the 
Reverend  Cassian  scornfully.  "We  should 
soil  our  white  robes." 

But  Saint  Nicholas  paid  no  attention  to 
him,  and  set  to  work  to  help  the  peasant. 
Both  horse  and  cart  were  soon  standing  safely 
in  the  dry  roadway,  but  several  splashes  of 
mud  had  stained  the  snowy  whiteness  of  the 
Saint's  raiment. 

When  God  heard  of  this  occurrence,  He 
ordered  that  from  thenceforward  the  memory 
of  Saint  Nicholas  was  to  be  honoured  twice  a 
year,  but  that  of  the  Rev.  Cassian  only  once 
in  four  years.  (The  festival  of  Saint  Cassian 
falls  on  the  2Qth  of  February !) 

"  Vladimir  Solovyof,"  added  Monsignor 
Lefrene,  "  told  me  this  legend  in  that  half- 
mocking  tone  which  is  nearly  always  assumed 
by  Frenchmen  when  speaking  of  le  bon  Dieu, 


THE  EMIGRANT  253 

but  which,  in  Russian,  is  quite  inadmissible. 
He  explained  the  legend  as  follows  :  Saint 
Nicholas  represents  the  Catholic  Church, 
always  warmly  attached  and  interested  in  its 
followers  and  never  afraid  of  touching  dirt 
when  there  is  a  chance  of  saving  a  sinner. 
Cassian,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  Orthodox 
Church,  cold  and  haughty,  indifferent  to  her 
people,  and  only  anxious  to  retain  her  outer 
immaculacy. 

Irene  was  greatly  drawn  to  Monsignor 
Lefrene  and  with  her  usual  impulsiveness, 
feeling  a  profound  confidence  in  him,  she 
made  him  a  confession  of  her  own  personal 
credo,  that  same  credo  that  Pere  Etienne 
had  once  waved  away  with  a  smile.  Lefrene 
listened  with  his  customary  half- satirical 
smile,  and  answered  quietly  : 

"  Your  faith  has  nothing  whatever  in  com- 
mon with  Christianity.  If  anything  it  is 
Biblical,  of  the  Old  Testament.  We  Christians 
abandoned  all  such  ideas  nineteen  centuries 
ago." 

Irene  blushed.  "  It  is  as  if  they  had  talked 
it  over  between  them,"  she  thought.  "  Pere 


254  THE  EMIGRANT 

Etienne  said  my  faith  suited  the  Samoyedes, 
and  this  man  says  it  is  of  the  Old  Testament." 

"  True  Christians,"  explained  Lefrene, 
noticing  Irene's  perplexity,  "never  expect 
rewards  or  justice  in  this  world,  because  they 
realize  that  such  results  are  only  possible 
beyond  the  grave.  To  pagans  and  Old 
Testament  Jews,  the  idea  of  a  future  life  had 
not  presented  itself — hence,  in  the  book  of 
Job,  for  instance,  Job,  having  patiently  borne 
all  his  sufferings,  expects  God,  in  justice,  to 
cure  him  of  his  leprosy,  give  him  new 
wealth,  new  children,  a  new  wife.  No,  for  that 
matter,  he  kept  his  old,  former  wife,  and  this 
very  circumstance  makes  me  think  that  Job 
was  not  nearly  as  happy  as  the  Bible  would 
have  us  believe." 

The  same  evening,  telling  Gzhatski  about 
her  visit  to  Lefrene,  Irene  mentioned  the 
shade  of  displeasure  that  had  crossed  the  face 
of  the  Monsignor,  and  similarly,  a  few  days 

previously,  that  of  Cardinal  R ,  at  the 

mention  of  the  suggested  Orthodox  Council. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  surprised,"  replied  Gzhatski. 
"  The  Catholics  know  very  well  that  a  body 


THE  EMIGRANT  255 

without  a  head  must,  sooner  or  latter,  decay 
and  fall  to  pieces.  They  foresee  the  moment, 
when  Russia,  to  save  her  religion,  will  have  to 
choose  a  head  for  her  Church,  and  they  hope 
to  be  able,  at  that  moment,  to  persuade  her 
to  accept  the  Pope  as  this  head.  The  election 
of  a  Patriarch  would  be  a  great  blow  to  their 
designs,  and  would  indefinitely  postpone  all 
idea  of  a  union  between  the  two  churches.  I 
say  postpone  because  all  Catholics  are  com- 
pletely convinced  that  ultimately  this  union 
must  come  to  pass." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  cannot  under- 
stand," exclaimed  Irene.  "  The  longer  I  live 
in  Rome,  the  more  I  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  two  churches  have  really  never  been 
separated.  No  one  but  theologians  is  inter- 
ested in  dogmas.  Ordinary  mortals,  orthodox 
and  Catholic  alike,  believe  in  the  same  legends 
and  superstitions,  the  same  saints  and  martyrs,, 
the  same  prayers,  the  same  gospel,  the  same 
services.  It  is  even  astonishing  that  two 
churches,  having  so  long  ago  severed  all  con- 
nection with  each  other,  should  have  remained 
so  astonishingly  similar.  Russian  pilgrims,. 


256  THE  EMIGRANT 

who  go  to  Bari  to  pray  at  the  shrine  of  Saint 
Nicholas,  the  worker  of  miracles,  proceed 
from  there  to  the  shrines  of  Saint  Peter  and 
Saint  Paul  in  Rome,  where  they  feel  per- 
fectly at  home.  What  is  the  use  of  worrying 
about  the  re-union  of  two  churches  that 
actually  have  never  been  disunited  at  all  ?" 

"You  forget  the  political  standpoint,"  said 
Gzhatski.  "  Russia  is  growing  daily  and 
hourly,  and  with  each  year  her  might  in- 
creases. Some  day,  in  the  not  too  far-distant 
future,  her  support  may  be  of  enormous 
importance  to  the  Pope.  What  with  the 
spread  of  Atheism  and  Freemasonry,  there  is 
nothing  to  ensure  that  the  Vatican  will  not 
one  fine  day  suddenly  be  turned  into  a 
National  museum,  and  some  out-of-the-way 
monastery  in  the  Apennines  be  offered  to  the 
Pope  as  a  residence !  The  Catholic  nations 
of  Europe  would,  in  such  a  case,  probably 
limit  themselves,  as  they  did  on  the  occasion 
•of  the  taking  of  Rome,  to  the  sending  of 
deputations  and  expressions  of  sympathy. 
It  is  at  that  moment  that  the  Pope,  like 
King  Lear,  will  turn  away  from  his  proud 


THE  EMIGRANT  257 

elder  daughters  Regan  and  Goneril,  on 
whom  he  has  lavished  so  much  love  and 
care,  and  will  remember  the  far-away  Cor- 
delia, whom,  though  she  has  received  nothing 
from  him,  he  has  never  ceased  to  regard  as 
his  daughter.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the 
Vatican  has  some  hopes  in  connection  with 
the  Northern  Cordelia,  and — who  knows  ? — 
perhaps  even  these  hopes  are  not  quite  with- 
out foundation.  In  any  case,  a  persecuted 
and  friendless  Pope  would  certainly  appeal 
far  more  strongly  to  the  sympathies  of  the 
Russian  people  than  the  present  magnificent 
and  triumphant  Pontiff!" 


XVII 

THE  Catholic  and  the  Orthodox  Easter  fell 
that  year  on  the  same  date.  It  was  already 
Passion  Week,  and  for  some  days  Irene  saw 
nothing  of  Gzhatski.  He  was  preparing  for 
Easter  Communion,  and  went  every  day  to 
the  Russian  Church.  Irene,  on  her  side,  was 
anxious  not  to  miss  even  the  least  of  the 
Catholic  services  and  ceremonies.  A  spell 
of  cold,  windy  weather  had  broken  in  upon 
the  sunny  springtime,  and,  perhaps  on  this 
account,  perhaps  also  through  the  fatigue  of 
constant  long  standing  in  church  (there  are  no 
chairs  in  the  great  Roman  cathedrals),  Irene's 
nerves  were  in  an  unbearable  state  of  tension 
and  restlessness.  With  a  great  effort,  she 
turned  her  steps,  on  the  Thursday  evening,, 
towards  St.  Peter's,  where  the  annual  ceremony 
of  the  washing  of  the  altar  was  to  take  place. 
258 


THE  EMIGRANT  259 

The  immense  church  was  filled  from  end 
to  end  with  a  dense,  closely-packed  crowd, 
the  service  being,  however,  audible  only  to 
the  comparatively  few  who  stood  near  the 
altar.  For  that  matter,  there  really  was  not 
any  service  at  all.  A  Cardinal  sat  on  the 
central  throne,  and  grouped  around  him  on 
wooden  seats  and  stools  were  the  numerous 
grades  and  members  of  the  Vatican  State 
Clergy.  They  were  singing  in  low,  dull, 
monotonous  tones,  and  their  endless,  wail- 
like,  doleful  chant  produced  a  most  dis- 
agreeable impression  on  the  nerves.  The 
tired,  enervated  crowd  pressed  against  the 
wooden  barriers  that  enclosed  a  free  passage 
for  the  procession.  Everyone  felt  hot  and 
tired  and  hungry,  and  faint  from  the  close, 
stuffy  atmosphere.  Cross  Englishwomen 
were  quarrelling  with  neighbouring  Italian 
women,  and  pushing  them  unceremoniously. 
In  perfectly  audible  tones  they  repeatedly 
remarked  the  impoliteness  of  people  in 
Rome,  especially  at  St.  Peter's  on  that 
particular  occasion.  Scarcely  anybody  was 
praying,  the  majority  of  those  present  having 


26o  THE  EMIGRANT 

come  simply  to  witness  an  interesting  spec- 
tacle. Pretty  young  American  girls  were 
there  with  their  sweethearts,  and  were  un- 
disguisedly  amusing  themselves,  chattering 
and  laughing  and  coquetting.  At  last,  after 
three  hours  of  responses  and  lamentations 
and  misereres,  the  long-awaited  procession 
appeared.  In  front  came  young  attendants 
in  lace  aprons,  and  behind  them  fat  old 
priests,  looking  like  old  women,  with  their 
smooth,  round  faces,  their  ample  mauve  robes, 
and  their  mauve-lined,  grey,  squirrel  capes. 
Each  one  carried  in  his  hand  a  rod  with  a 
sponge  attached  to  it.  Last  of  all,  also  carry- 
ing an  enormous  sponge,  came  a  Cardinal  in 
a  red  robe  with  a  long  train  carried  by  an 
attendant. 

The  procession  mounted  the  altar  steps, 
and,  all  coverings  and  ornaments  having 
been  previously  removed,  began  to  wash 
the  altar.  A  scent  of  wine  spread  through 
the  church.  Having  concluded  this  cere- 
mony, the  procession  passed  slowly  and 
solemnly  round  the  altar  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  shower  of  rattles,  sounded  to 


THE  EMIGRANT  261 

denote  the  dismay  and  perturbation  of  all 
Nature — the  thunder  and  earthquake  that 
followed  Christ's  death. 

Irene  followed  everything  with  great  atten- 
tion. A  strange,  new  feeling  of  contempt 
seemed  to  tremble  in  her  soul.  At  home, 
in  her  own  country,  she  had  always  come 
away  from  the  Passion  Week  services  deeply 
touched,  and  in  great  emotion.  And  now, 
all  these  unaccustomed  ceremonies  and  cos- 
tumes and  rites,  the  strange  language,  the 
extraordinary  pagan  ritual,  suddenly  shocked 
her.  Maybe  she  was  overtired  from  three 
hours'  standing  in  the  crowd,  and,  therefore, 
more  than  usually  critical — but  true  it  is  that 
she  contemplated  almost  with  loathing  the 
whole  scene  before  her,  even  the  marble 
columns  and  the  colossal  statues  of  the  great 
Roman  Cathedral. 

"  And  they  call  this  Christianity !"  she 
thought  bitterly.  "  What  an  irony  !  This  is 
sheer  paganism,  and  these  are  the  same  ancient 
Romans,  still  worshipping  the  same  old  gods 
as  before.  They  have  never  understood 
Christ's  teaching,  and  they  have  buried 


262  THE  EMIGRANT 

it  under  marble  shrines  and  pagan  cere- 
monies. 

"In  your  place  I  would  go  a  little  further 
still,"  exclaimed  Irene's  inner  soul  with 
malicious  sarcasm.  "  I  would  destroy  every 
New  Testament  in  the  world,  except  one — 
and  that  one  I  would  put  in  a  golden,  jewel- 
studded  box,  and  would  bury  it  deep  in  the 
earth,  forbidding  its  disinterment  on  pain  of 
death.  Over  it,  I  would  build  a  splendid 
golden  shrine,  and  in  this  shrine  I  would 
celebrate  night  and  day  magnificent  services 
with  gorgeous  processions.  That  would  be 
entirely  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  your 
Christianity. 

"But  you  have  not  the  temerity  to  go  so 
far.  You  vaguely  feel  that  some  day  the 
world  will  arise  in  fury  against  you,  will 
destroy  your  temples,  tear  into  shreds  your 
splendid  robes,  and  leave,  alone  and  trium- 
phant, only  the  Gospel,  the  one  Christian 
teaching  humanity  needs.  And  then,  there 
will  come  together  'two  or  three  in  His 
Name/  to  read  His  Book  and  to  pray — and 
'  He  will  be  among  them.' ' 


THE  EMIGRANT  263 

Thus,  angrily,  yet  dreaming,  Irene's 
thoughts  flew.  Just  in  front  of  her  stood 
an  Italian  middle-class  couple.  The  young 
husband  held  a  three-year-old  girl  by  the 
hand  while  the  pretty  mother  pressed  to  her 
heart  a  white  bundle,  evidently  a  sleeping 
infant.  The  noise  of  the  rattles  must  have 
disturbed  its  slumbers,  for  suddenly  the 
bundle  stirred,  a  tiny  hand  stretched  itself 
forth  in  search  of  the  mother's  breast,  and  a 
low  wail  made  itself  heard.  The  mother 
immediately  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  a  marble 
•column,  and  began  to  feed  the  child.  For 
some  reason,  the  idea  occurred  to  Irene  that 
in  all  that  pagan  crowd  in  a  pagan  temple  the 
only  representatives  of  Christianity  were  that 
simple  mother  and  child. 

"  There  is  the  great  miracle  !"  she  thought 
rapturously.  "New  life,  coming  no  one 
knows  from  where!  Why  are  you  all 
quarrelling  about  whether  certain  miracles 
were  or  were  not  performed  nineteen  cen- 
turies ago  in  Palestine  ?  Why  must  you  be 
certain  of  those  particular  miracles,  before 
you  can  believe  in  God  ?  To-day,  at  this 


264  THE  EMIGRANT 

very  moment,  you  are  surrounded  by  miracles. 
Birth,  death,  sunrise,  springtime,  winter — are 
not  all  these  miracles  ?  You  have  forgotten 
them  because  you  see  them  every  day.  In 
your  silly  self-conceit,  you  assure  yourselves 
that  all  this  is  perfectly  natural,  and  that 
science  has  long  ago  explained  it  all — but  you 
forget  that  your  science  has  only  noted  the 
existence  of  these  miracles,  and  that  their 
secret  belongs  as  much  as  ever  to  the  Al- 
mighty Ruler  of  the  Universe  in  whom  you 
find  it  so  difficult  to  believe." 

Irene  left  the  Cathedral  in  great  moral 
perturbation.  So  great  was  her  excitement 
that  she  forgot  to  take  a  cab,  and  walked  all 
the  long  way  home,  in  the  face  of  a  cutting 
east  wind  that  she  did  not  even  notice. 
Large  tears  ran  down  her  face,  she  talked  to 
herself,  gesticulated,  and  drew  the  attention 
of  all  passers-by.  The  pagan  soul  that  had 
passed  Christianity  by  was  sobbing  and 
storming  within  her.  For  one  moment, 
under  the  influence  of  the  very  ceremonies 
she  was  execrating,  she  had  understood  how 
priceless  was  the  treasure  she  had  lost.  Life 


THE  EMIGRANT  265: 

might  have  been  beautiful  and  full  of  har- 
mony, whereas,  on  the  path  she  had  chosen, 
there  was  nothing  but  constant,  needless, 
helpless  suffering.  Someone  should  have 
taught  her  Christianity  !  Her  soul  had  been 
confided  to  someone's  care,  and  that  someone 
had  not  fulfilled  his  sacred  duty  ! 

And  Irene,  in  her  despair,  cursed  all  lazy 
and  idle  slaves,  for  a  voice  in  her  soul  told 
her  that  her  fate  was  sealed,  and  that  it  was- 
too  late  to  try  and  change  it. 


XVIII 

THE  following  morning  Irene  awoke  feeling 
depressed  and  miserable.  She  was  afraid  to 
remain  alone  with  her  own  thoughts,  and 
wrote  to  Gzhatski,  asking  him  to  come  and 
take  her  for  a  drive  on  the  Appian  Way.  It 
was  Good  Friday,  and  Gzhatski  was  just  on 
the  point  of  leaving  his  hotel  to  go  to  the 
Russian  Church,  when  Irene's  letter  was 
handed  to  him.  He  guessed  from  the  tone 
of  her  words  that  something  unusual  was  the 
juatter  with  his  friend,  and,  without  hesi 
taring,  he  immediately  drove  off  to  fetch  her. 
Asking  no  questions,  and  pretending  not  to 
notice  her  tear-stained  eyes  and  trembling 
lips,  he  sat  quietly  beside  her,  as  the  cab 
.rolled  past  the  Colosseum  and  the  Baths  of 
Caracalla,  to  the  Porta  San  Sebastiano.  It 
was  a  grey,  dull  morning.  The  yellow,  thick, 
266 


THE  EMIGRANT  267 

Roman  dust  had  been  laid  by  the  recent  rain, 
the  wind  had  fallen,  and  not  a  leaf  stirred  on 
the  trees.  On  either  side  of  the  Via  Appia 
Antica  rose  high  stone  walls,  obstructing  the 
view  over  the  Campagna.  At  last,  however, 
they  passed  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  and 
drove  out  into  the  open  country.  Before 
them  stretched  the  narrow  ancient  road,  in 
places  still  paved  with  flat  stones,  in  the 
ancient  fashion.  This  road,  straight  as  an 
arrow,  stretches  all  the  way  to  Albano, 
making  no  zig-zags  even  when  climbing  up- 
hill. It  is  a  road  that  could  only  have  been 
made  by  children,  or  by  ancient  Romans! 
On  either  side  of  the  way  stand  monuments 
of  the  most  varied  forms,  round,  cone-shaped, 
pyramidal,  and  other  varieties,  difficult  to 
name  or  describe.  Some  of  them  still  boast 
bas-reliefs  and  inscriptions,  and  here  and 
there  fallen  statues,  armless  or  headless,  peep 
out  between  the  bushes.  Occasionally/too, 
some  stray  monument  is  surrounded  by  a 
frame  of  tall  cypresses  and  Roman  pines,  but 
in  general,  there  is  not  much  greenery,  except 
the  tall,  fresh  grass,  full  of  mauve  and  yellow 


268  THE  EMIGRANT 

field-flowers,  and  scarlet  poppies.  In  the  far 
distance  are  the  blue  Albanian  hills,  and  on 
the  left  the  graceful  ruins  of  the  Aque- 
ducts stand  out  in  charming  relief  against 
the  sky. 

Irene  gazed  in  silence  at  the  lovely  picture. 
It  was  long  since  she  had  ventured  beyond 
the  stone  walls  of  the  city,  and  now,  at  sight 
of  Nature  in  this  fresh  spring  dress,  a  new, 
strange,  unconquerable  desire  for  happiness 
suddenly  took  possession  of  her  soul. 

"  It  is  inhuman  to  be  always  miserable  and 
in  tears,  and  to  eternally  curse  one's  own 
existence,"  she  thought;  "everyone  has  a 
right  to  at  least  occasional  gleams  of  happi- 
ness. Who  has  dared  to  condemn  me  to 
constant  despair  ?  I  claim  my  share  of  joy  f 
I  claim  it !  I  demand  it !  I  desire  it !" 

Irene  repeated  the  words  passionately  to 
herself,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  Fate  must 
send  her  happiness,  if  only  because  she  desired 
it  so  ardently. 

"  I  cannot  wait  any  longer !"  she  seemed 
to  be  inwardly  exclaiming  to  somebody.  "  I 
must  have  happiness  immediately — to-day  I 


THE  EMIGRANT  269 

Yes,  to-day,  to-day — I  do  not  believe  in  to- 
morrow !" 

Gzhatski,  too,  was  silent,  and  apparently 
lost  in  his  own  thoughts,  as  he  sat  back  in 
the  carriage,  smiling  softly  to  himself. 

"  How  lovely !"  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
turning  to  Irene.  "  Don't  you  think  the 
Campagna  reminds  one  of  the  country  in 
Russia  ?  The  same  limitless  space,  the  same 
meadows,  even  the  same  modest  spring,  not 
at  all  southern  and  luxurious.  I  hardly  think 

Nature  at  my  place  in  the  S province 

can  be  much  more  than  a  month  behind  this." 

Presently  they  alighted,  and  climbed  up 
a  little  grassy  slope  to  admire  the  view,  the 
loveliness  of  which  was  enhanced  by  the 
wonderful  silence  in  which  all  Nature  seemed 
wrapt.  No  sound  was  heard,  except  the 
occasional  shy  note  of  a  bird,  and  the  low 
baa-ing  of  distant  sheep. 

On  the  way  back  they  stopped  to  have  tea 
at  the  Castello  dei  Cesari,  an  original  and 
charming  little  restaurant,  arranged  in  an 
ancient  tower.  They  sat  near  the  window 
of  the  large  hall,  with  its  wooden  ceiling, 


270  THE  EMIGRANT 

brick  floor,  antique  wooden  chandeliers,  and 
enormous  antique  vases  full  of  flowers. 

The  magnificent  view  embraced  the  Pala- 
tine Hill,  with  its  gigantic  ruins,  and  towards 
evening  the  setting  sun  threw  the  magic  of 
its  golden  glory  alike  over  the  ruins  and  the 
lilacs  and  fruit-trees  that  bloomed  among  them. 

Was  it  the  springtime,  or  a  likeness  between 
the  Campagna  and  his  home  that  had  touched 
Gzhatski  ?  He  suddenly  began  to  speak 
of  his  mother,  of  that  holy  of  holies  in  his 
soul  that  he  always  kept  so  jealously  to  him- 
self. Leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table,  he 
spoke  to  Irene  of  his  childhood,  his  home, 
his  most  cherished  recollections,  and  his  life 
with  the  beloved,  sainted  guardian  of  his 
early  days. 

"  How  she  loved  me !  How  proud  she 
was  of  me  !  With  what  tenderness  she  looked 
at  me!  She  brought  me  up  with  nothing 
but  love.  When  governesses  or  tutors  made 
some  complaint  about  me,  she  called  me  to 
her,  repeated  their  words,  and  said :  '  I  can- 
not believe  it  possible  that  you  should  have 
done  such  a  thing.  There  must  be  some 


THE  EMIGRANT  271 

misunderstanding.  Explain  it  to  me.'  And 
I  was  afraid  to  be  naughty,  because  it  was 
awful  to  give  her  pain  and  to  meet  her  sad, 
reproachful  glance.  I  was  still  quite  little, 
but  I  already  realized  that  life  had  not  brought 
her  much  happiness.  Besides,  the  circum- 
stances were  such  that  I  naturally  reasoned 
and  reflected  much  more  than  most  children 
of  my  age.  My  father  used  to  come  once  or 
twice  a  year ;  my  mother  was  always  bed- 
ridden. The  whole  household  was  accustomed 
to  apply  to  me  for  orders,  and  I  very  early 
assumed  the  responsibilities  of  the  master  of 
the  house.  I  remember  even  that  when  I 
was  barely  twelve,  I  began  to  take  up  a  pro- 
tecting attitude  towards  my  mother !  She 
was  more  amused  than  displeased,  and  told 
me  that  she  greatly  valued  such  a  strong 
and  energetic  protector." 

Gzhatski  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  his 
face  assumed  a  hard  expression  that  Irene 
had  never  seen  there  before. 

"  She  died  suddenly,"  he  continued,  lower- 
ing his  voice.  "  Three  hours  before  her 
death,  I  came  to  show  myself  to  her  in  a  new 


272  THE  EMIGRANT 

riding-suit  that  had  just  arrived  from  Petro- 
grad.  She  asked  to  be  raised  on  her  cushions 
that  she  might  see  me  better,  and  she  looked 
at  me  delightedly.  I  thought  myself  mag- 
nificent, posed,  glanced  at  myself  in  the 
glass,  and  played  with  my  elegant  riding- 
whip.  What  a  child  I  was  at  seventeen !  I 
smile  to  think  of  it.  The  new  suit  was  the 
reason  of  my  taking  a  longer  ride  than  usual 
that  day,  and  the  groom  who  was  sent  to  find 
me  could  not  catch  me  up.  I  returned  gaily, 
trotted  up  to  the  entrance,  jumped  from  my 
horse,  and  then  suddenly  saw  the  tear-stained 
face  of  our  old  butler. 

"  '  Her  Excellency  is  dying,'  he  whispered. 

"As  though  in  a  fog,  I  passed  into  my 
mother's  room,  and  started  back  in  fright, 
seeing  her  lying  on  the  floor.  There  is  a 
superstition  prevalent  in  our  province  to  the 
effect  that  it  is  bad  to  die  in  bed,  and  that, 
at  the  approach  of  the  agony,  the  dying  must 
be  laid  on  the  floor — i.e.,  as  near  as  possible 
to  the  ground.  I  have  no  idea  whether  my 
mother  really  knew  of  this  superstition,  but 
Jier  old  and  trusted  maid  afterwards  told  me 


THE  EMIGRANT  273 

that  she  had  suddenly  expressed  a  wish  to  be 
laid  on  the  floor.  The  wish  had  been  com- 
plied with,  the  maids  hurriedly  arranging  rugs 
and  cushions  for  the  purpose. 

"  The  agony  had  already  begun  when  I 
fell  on  my  knees  beside  my  mother.  Twice 
she  spoke  my  name,  but  she  no  longer  recog- 
nized me.  She  muttered  something,  stirring 
restlessly  on  her  pillow.  I  bent  over  her, 
and  caught  the  words  : 

"  '  Life — life — how  cruel  it  is  !  Nothing 
but  tears  and  sorrow  and  despair!  Not  a 
moment  of  happiness  !  Not  a  moment  of 
joy.  .  .  .' 

"  I  shuddered  at  these  words.  So  these 
were  my  mother's  hidden  thoughts !  The 
whisper  grew  still  lower,  and  then  ceased.  .  .  . 
We  all  waited  and  listened,  and  suddenly  we 
knew  that  she  had  ceased  to  be.  Someone 
burst  into  tears.  They  lifted  her  from  the 
floor,  and  her  thin,  wasted  body  took  a  strange 
attitude,  as  it  lay  heavily  and  awkwardly  in 
the  arms  of  the  maids.  At  that  moment  I 
realized  that  she  was  no  longer  a  being,  but 
a  thing ;  and,  with  a  cry  of  horror,  I  fled.  I 

18 


274  THE  EMIGRANT 

shut  myself  up  in  my  room,  and  sobbed  all 
the  evening,  as  much  with  grief  at  having 
lost  her  as  with  the  sharp  pain  her  last  words 
had  caused  me. 

'"She  had  assured  me  that  I  was  her  life 
and  her  joy/  I  thought,  'and  yet  for  how 
little  had  I  counted  in  her  existence.' 

"  During  all  our  life  together,  during  all 
those  years  that  had  been  so  dear  to  me,  she 
had  only  suffered  and  hidden  her  pain  from 
me !  '  Never  a  moment  of  happiness !'  Those 
last  words  rang  in  my  ears  with  cruel  and 
horrible  insistence. 

"It  was  already  night  when  I  ventured 
out  of  my  room.  The  whole  household  was 
sleeping;  only  the  deacon  was  reading  the 
psalms  for  the  dead,  in  a  melancholy  voice, 
beside  my  mother's  body.  She  lay  there, 
all  in  white,  surrounded  with  flowers.  I  ap- 
proached on  tiptoe,  and  stood  still,  gazing  at 
her ;  she  looked  so  small,  so  thin,  so  frail, 
like  an  old  child.  A  feeling  of  boundless 
pity  took  possession  of  my  soul.  '  How, 
oh  how  had  she  deserved  so  sad  a  des- 
tiny ?'  I  asked  myself  hopelessly.  '  What 


THE  EMIGRANT  275 

had  she  done  ?  How  had  she  offended 
God?' 

"And  I  pressed  close  to  her  and  kissed 
her,  and  felt  that  I  had  never  understood 
how  much  she  loved  me.  Only  a  love  that 
knew  no  limits  could  have  given  her  the 
strength  to  hide  her  pain  so  completely. 
She  had  not  wanted  to  sadden  my  childhood  ; 
she  had  realized  that  a  child  could  only  grow 
up  and  develop  well  and  normally  when  sur- 
rounded by  love  and  happiness.  How  many 
mothers  have  I  met  since  who  have  failed  to 
realize  this,  and  who  have  ruined  the  futures 
of  their  children  by  letting  them  share,  at 
a  tender  age,  tears  and  sorrows  beyond  their 
years ! 

"  I  remained  beside  my  mother  till  dawn ; 
and  during  that  night,  it  was  as  if  some  voice 
had  told  me  that  I  should  never  again  have 
a  true  friend.  The  prophecy  has  indeed  been 
fulfilled ;  I  know  the  entire  province,  but  I 
have  not  a  friend.  Sometimes,  too,  I  have 
flattered  myself  with  the  hope  that  I  had 
found  a  true  woman  with  whom  I  would  like 
to  share  my  life  ;  but  always,  as  I  came  within 


276  THE  EMIGRANT 

reach  of  the  prize,  it  melted  away,  having  been 
but  a  dream.  Fate  always  seemed  to  say  to 
me  :  '  You  have  had  your  fair  share  of  woman's 
love,  and  have  no  right  for  more.' 

"  This  very  winter  again,  it  at  one  time 
seemed  to  me,  Irene  Pavlovna,  that  I  had 
found  in  you  a  true  friend ;  but  I  am  afraid 
you  are  too  much  occupied  with  your  own 
salvation  to  sacrifice  any  time  or  thought  to 
friendship.  And  yet  if  anything  in  the  world 
can  save  you,  it  is  not  a  convent  and  not 
Catholicism,  but  simply  an  active  interest  in 
your  fellow-creatures.  When  experience  and 
observation  have  taught  us  love  and  charity, 
we  are  saved,  and  life  is  no  longer  terrible. 
Fate  may  be  as  cruel  as  she  pleases ;  but  if 
we  have  warmth  and  love  in  our  hearts,  we 
shall  never  be  alone,  never  in  despair,  and 
shall  never  think  of  self-destruction,  if  only 
out  of  pity  for  all  our  suffering  brothers, 
whom,  as  long  as  we  live,  we  have  always 
the  chance  of  helping. 

"If  only  you  could  rid  yourself  of  the  idea 
that  you  are  too  old  for  marriage !  For  what 
precisely  is  it  that  you  think  yourself  too  old  ? 


THE  EMIGRANT  277 

For  kisses  ?  It  is  extraordinary  that  women 
never  seem  to  see  anything  beyond  the  mere 
physical  side  of  marriage !  Look  at  it  from 
a  higher,  purer,  more  Christian  standpoint ! 
Believe  me,  what  men  need  most  is  sympathy, 
friendship,  understanding,  and  the  generous, 
noble  love  that  can  forgive  us  our  faults  and 
our  shortcomings.  I  have  contemplated  your 
state  of  mind  from  every  standpoint,  and 
sometimes  I  wonder  whether  the  sickness  of 
my  own  soul  is  not  even  more  dangerous  and 
incurable  than  yours.  I  only  cannot  myself 
see  it  so  plainly,  or  rather  I  do  not  attach  to 
it  the  importance  it  deserves.  .  .  ." 

Irene  became  engaged  to  Gzhatski,  and 
he  persuaded  her  to  leave  Rome  as  quickly 
as  possible,  and  go  to  the  Riviera,  whither 
his  doctors  were  sending  him,  in  fear  of 
Roman  springtime  malaria.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Gzhatski  was  far  less  afraid  of  malaria 
than  of  Pere  Etienne,  the  strength  of  whose 
influence  over  Irene  he  greatly  exaggerated. 
Natures  like  Irene's  never  remain  long  under 
the  same  influence.  They  are  swayed  by 
sudden  enthusiasms  and  equally  sudden  dis- 


278  THE  EMIGRANT 

appointments.  Blown  to  right  and  to  left  by 
every  passing  breeze,  they  fling  themselves 
into  one  friendship  and  then  another,  search- 
ing for  happiness  everywhere,  and  finding  it 
nowhere.  The  hour  of  Catholicism  in  the 
person  of  Pere  Etienne  had  struck  and  passed, 
and  there  had  dawned  the  new  dream  of  salva- 
tion through  love. 

Irene  agreed  to  go  with  Gzhatski  to  Monte 
Carlo.  The  day  and  hour  of  departure  were 
already  fixed ;  but  she  still  had  not  the  courage 
to  inform  Pere  Etienne  of  her  new  plans.  She 
tried  several  times  to  write  to  him,  but  always 
ended  by  tearing  her  lengthy  explanations  in 
despair.  At  last,  on  the  very  morning  of  the 
great  day,  an  hour  before  her  departure,  she 
sent  him  a  note,  informing  him  of  her  unex- 
pected decision  to  leave  immediately  for  the 
Riviera,  and  promising  to  write  at  greater 
length  from  there. 

Irene  had  proposed  to  meet  Gzhatski  at 
the  station ;  but  he  had  obstinately  insisted 
on  coming  to  fetch  her,  and  she  had  been 
obliged  to  give  in.  Her  acquaintances  at 
the  pension  said  good-bye  to  her  very  coldly  ; 


THE  EMIGRANT  279 

they  could  not  forgive  her  for  her  treachery 
to  the  cause  of  their  beloved  Catholicism. 
Some  of  them  regarded  her  with  contempt, 
others  with  envy. 

Gzhatski's  cab  stood  at  the  door,  and  Irene 
was  already  seated  in  it,  impatiently  longing 
to  start.  The  servants  were  tying  on  the 
luggage,  Gzhatski  was  standing  on  the  pave- 
ment, smoking  and  giving  occasional  direc- 
tions, and  at  the  windows  of  the  pension 
interested  faces  could  be  seen  peeping 
through  the  curtains.  At  this  moment  Pere 
Etienne,  puffing  and  panting  in  hot  haste, 
appeared  round  the  corner.  The  kind  old 
man  had  just  received  Irene's  note,  and  had 
come  to  say  good-bye,  and  to  bless  her 
before  her  departure.  Catching  sight  of 
Gzhatski  he  stopped  still  for  a  moment, 
completely  dumbfounded,  while  Gzhatski 
smiled  in  undisguised  triumph.  The  old 
man  was  angry.  His  face  assumed  a  cold 
and  proud  expression,  and  taking  no  notice 
whatever  of  Irene  he  turned  to  the  entrance 
of  the  pension.  Having,  however,  already 
reached  the  door,  he  suddenly,  in  spite  of 


280  THE  EMIGRANT 

himself,  looked  round.  Irene  was  gazing  at 
him  with  such  a  confused,  guilty  air,  that 
Pere  Etienne's  severity  involuntarily  relaxed, 
and  he  bowed  sadly.  "  Poor  girl !"  his  kind, 
sympathetic  old  face  seemed  to  say — "you 
have  thrown  away  your  last  chance  of  hap- 
piness !" 


XIX 

A  BRILLIANT  spring  was  reigning  in  Monte 
Carlo.  Not  the  pale,  cold,  Russian  spring,, 
when  in  May  the  first  shy  snowdrops  barely 
manage  to  force  their  white  heads  through  the 
ground ;  nor  yet  the  Roman  spring,  that 
Gzhatski  called  "modest,"  but  the  real,  pas- 
sionate, southern  precursor  of  summer.  April 
was  not  yet  over,  but  the  weather  was  hot  as 
at  midsummer.  The  blue  sea  sparkled  dazz- 
lingly  under  the  unbearably  strong  rays  of 
the  sun,  flowers  hung  like  thick  carpets  over 
walls  and  terraces,  gorgeous  roses  climbed 
over  the  trellises  and  fences  of  the  gardens. 
And  no  one  was  there  to  admire  all  this 
splendour — for  the  season  was  over,  the 
hotels  and  shops  were  closed,  the  shutters  of 
the  villas  were  up,  and  Monte  Carlo  re- 
sembled the  kingdom  of  the  "  Sleeping. 
281 


282  THE  EMIGRANT 

Beauty."  All  the  life  that  was  still  there 
was  concentrated  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  gaming  rooms,  and  it  was  here  that  I  rene 
and  Gzhatski  spent  their  days,  walking  in  the 
lovely  Casino  gardens,  or  sitting  on  the  fairy- 
like  terrace  overlooking  the  sea. 

They  had  intended  to  be  married  imme- 
diately on  their  arrival  in  Monte  Carlo,  but, 
as  is  always  the  case  with  Russians,  it  had 
turned  out  that  the  ceremony  could  only  take 
place  on  the  production  of  countless  official 
papers  that  had  to  be  sent  for  to  Russia.  In 
the  meantime,  they  had  settled  in  a  large 
hotel  close  to  the  Casino — the  only  hotel 
open  all  the  year  round — and  happy  in  each 
other's  society,  they  revelled  in  the  glories 
of  the  golden  springtime  that  fashionable 
Riviera  visitors  had  so  foolishly  abandoned. 

Monte  Carlo  produced  a  very  curious 
impression  on  Irene.  In  Rome  she  had 
seen,  side  by  side  with  palaces,  splendid  car- 
nages, and  dazzling  luxury,  the  most  heart- 
rending poverty  and  beggary — a  contrast  to  be 
met  with  in  all  large  cities.  Here,  on  the  con- 
trary, there  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  1 1  seemed 


THE  EMIGRANT  283 

as  if  every  inhabitant  of  this  sunlit  fairyland 
lived  and  existed  merely  for  his  own  pleasure. 
The  very  waiters  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris 
hummed  and  danced  to  the  sound  of  the 
Hungarian  orchestra  as  they  served  visitors 
with  refreshments.  The  Arab  pedlars,  selling 
Eastern  shawls,  wandered  through  the  gar- 
dens in  their  white  burnous  and  their  smart 
red  boots,  apparently  more  intent  upon  boast- 
ing of  the  beauty  of  their  wares  than  upon  sell- 
ing them.  The  only  busy  people  in  the  whole 
place  seemed  to  be  the  croupiers,  and  when,  at 
given  hours,  groups  of  them  came  out  of  the 
Casino  to  be  replaced  by  new  relays,  they 
reminded  one  of  workmen  leaving  a  factory 
after  an  exhausting  day's  work. 

The  remaining  inhabitants  did  nothing 
from  morning  till  night  but  walk  about  in 
elegant  summer  clothes,  feed  pigeons, 
drink  tea  to  the  accompaniment  of  music, 
play  with  their  absurd  little  dogs,  or  gamble 
in  the  Casino. 

Irene  was  much  interested  in  this,  to  her, 
novel  type  of  public,  and  was  particularly 
astonished  at  the  sight  of  so  many  middle- 


284  THE  EMIGRANT 

aged,  even  old,  women,  with  dyed  hair, 
made-up  faces,  girlish  dresses  and  hats, 
tripping  gracefully  along,  and  smiling 
coquettishly  at  their  funny  little  old-men- 
admirers.  The  latter,  even  if  somewhat 
shaky  on  their  legs,  also  wore  light,  fashion- 
able clothes,  and  flowers  in  their  buttonholes. 
At  first  they  made  Irene  laugh,  but  soon, 
with  the  inconsistency  of  nearly  all  weak 
characters,  she  began  to  wonder  whether  it 
was  not  much  wiser  to  cling  to  one's  youth 
than  to  be  old  at  thirty,  as  was  her  own  case. 
The  conviction  that  this  was  indeed  so  came 
upon  her  suddenly,  and  she  immediately 
rushed  off  to  Nice,  and  ordered  a  whole 
mountain  of  elegant  dresses,  hats,  false  curls, 
etc.  Having  previously  considered  it  a  sin 
to  spend  an  extra  penny  on  clothes,  Irene 
now  went  from  shop  to  shop,  never  even 
attempting  to  bargain,  and  throwing  money 
about  with  almost  feverish  prodigality  in  her 
desire  to  possess  herself  without  delay  of  att 
that  was  most  elegant  and  luxurious  in  the 
way  of  frocks  and  frills. 

Gzhatski  observed  her  in  amazed  silence. 


THE  EMIGRANT  285 

and  smilingly  watched  the  transformation  of 
yesterday's  nun,  with  her  flat  hair  and  her 
eternal  black  dress,  into  a  coloured  fashion- 
plate.  Being,  in  his  heart,  far  more  pleased 
than  otherwise  that  his  future  wife  should  be 
well  dressed  and  elegant,  he  did  not  protest. 
What  disquieted  him  much  more,  indeed, 
was  a  passion  that  Irene  suddenly  developed 
for  gambling.  Gzhatski,  having  himself  once 
advised  her  to  cultivate  some  passion,  if  only 
artificially,  just  that  it  might  attach  her  more 
firmly  to  earth,  very  ruefully  contemplated  the 
•development  of  this  passion  now  that  it  had 
shown  itself  without  any  effort  on  Irene's 
part !  Sergei  Grigorievitch,  indeed,  was  one 
of  those  men  who,  in  the  woman  they  have 
chosen,  admit  only  one  possible  passion  :  that 
of  love  for  themselves ! 

It  was  anything  but  easy  to  dissuade  Irene 
from  gambling.  She  revelled  in  the  sensa- 
tions of  those  feverish  minutes  passed  at  the 
tables,  falling  into  the  depths  of  despair  at 
the  loss  of  fifty  francs,  and  soaring  into  an 
absolute  frenzy  of  delight  at  the  gain  of 
forty  !  On  leaving  the  gambling  rooms, 


286  THE  EMIGRANT 

Irene  took  deep  breaths  of  the  fresh  sea  air, 
her  eyes  shone,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
sea  and  the  hills  and  the  flowers  had  never 
been  so  beautiful  before.  It  was  this  that 
displeased  Gzhatski.  He  might  have  recon- 
ciled himself  to  the  idea  of  her  gambling  had 
she  regretted  her  losses,  but  he  could  not 
forgive  her  that  feverish  delight,  that  moral 
ecstacy  and  satisfaction  that  she  gleaned  from 
this  new  craze. 

Sometimes  he  succeeded  in  luring  her 
away  from  the  temptations  of  the  tables  by 
arranging  excursions  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Like  most  Slavs,  indeed  like  most  sons  of  a 
young  race,  Gzhatski  could  not  grow  old,  and 
at  forty,  he  often  laughed  and  played  pranks 
like  a  schoolboy.  He  had  the  capacity,  in- 
deed, of  infecting  everyone  around  him  with 
his  gaiety,  even  cab-drivers,  boatmen,  and 
waiters !  To  each  and  all  of  them  he  knew 
how  to  say  the  right  word,  or  make  the  right 
joke,  at  the  right  moment.  He  was  descended 
indeed  from  a  noble  old  race  of  landowners,, 
who  had  always  been  ready  to  till  their  own 
soil,  side  by  side  with  their  peasants,  seeing 


THE  EMIGRANT  287 

in  the  latter,  not  machines,  but  interesting- 
and  deserving  human  beings. 

To  Irene,  such  simple  relations  with  the 
lower  classes  seemed  strangely  new  and 
original.  In  the  usual  Petrograd  fashion,  she 
had  hardly  ever  exchanged  a  word  with  her 
servants,  and  barely  knew  them  by  sight.  At 
hotels  at  which  she  had  stayed  for  two  months 
she  had  nearly  always,  on  leaving,  been 
obliged,  before  giving  a  tip,  to  ask  the  manager 
which  waiter  had  served  her  all  the  time,  she 
herself  being  quite  unable  to  distinguish  him 
from  the  others. 

In  every  way,  indeed,  Gzhatski  proved  a 
most  interesting  travelling  companion.  Men 
always  bring  gaiety  and  animation  into  the 
lives  of  lonely  women,  even  when  they  are 
neither  lovers  nor  husbands,  but  simply 
distant  relations.  This  is  so,  because  women 
who  have  no  social  activities  to  distract  their 
thoughts  are  inclined  to  look  upon  life  as 
something  tragic  and  fatal,  against  which  it  is 
useless  to  struggle.  Men,  on  the  other  hand, 
who,  if  only  indirectly,  make  our  laws  and 
govern  our  countries,  do  not  attach  much. 


1288  THE  EMIGRANT 

importance  to  life,  often  indeed  regarding  it 
from  the  humorous  standpoint.  It  is  popu- 
larly supposed  that  men  are  more  conserva- 
tive than  women,  and  that  they  care  more 
about  traditions  and  old  customs.  Actually, 
however,  the  laws  and  customs  they  passion- 
ately defend  are  invariably  useful  at  the 
moment,  and  when  the  need  for  them  passes, 
men  are  the  first  to  abandon  them.  Women, 
on  the  contrary,  cling  desperately  to  tradi- 
tions, especially  inconvenient  and  trouble- 
some ones,  and  if  ever  they  decide  to  defy 
even  some  unimportant  social  law,  they  do  it 
tragically,  as  though  flinging  themselves  into 
an  abyss. 

"There!  I  have  cut  off  my  hair,  and  I 
smoke,"  thinks  a  newly-converted  Nihilist. 
"  The  thing  is  done — there  is  no  turning 
back.  Whatever  I  may  do  now,  nothing  can 
win  me  back  my  old  position,  and  the  re- 
spect of  my  fellows.  And  so — vogue  le 
galere !" 

How  many  perfectly  modest  women  having 
once  let  their  hairdressers  persuade  them  to 
dye  their  hair  auburn,  immediately  assume  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  289 

manners   and   conversational   style   of   "  co- 
cottes !" 

The  southern  spring,  the  music,  the  excite- 
ment of  gambling,  the  constant  society  of  a 
charming  man,  all  this  did  not  fail  to  make  its 
due  impression  on  Irene,  with  the  result  that 
she  fell,  day  by  day,  more  and  more  deeply 
in  love  with  Gzhatski.  In  her  past  dreams 
of  love  she  had  always  seen  herself  hotly  dis- 
puting with  her  lover,  proclaiming  her  views 
and  theories  like  a  prophetess,  and  bringing 
him  round  unreservedly  to  her  opinions  on  all 
matters.  To  her  own  astonishment,  however, 
she  now  no  longer  cared  in  the  least  about 
.any  of  her  old  theories  and  ideas,  and  was 
ready  to  give  them  all  up  without  a  sigh,  to 
please  Gzhatski.  She  had  long  ago  left  off 
being  particular  about  what  he  said  to  her, 
her  attention  being  entirely  riveted  on  the 
way  he  said  it,  on  his  every  movement,  smile, 
or  change  of  expression.  Alone  in  her  room 
in  the  evening  she  sat  up  late,  and  could  not 
sleep  at  night,  for  thinking  of  his  elegant 
figure,  the  gleam  of  his  even  white  teeth,  the 
picturesque  manner  in  which  he  smoked  his 

19 


290  THE  EMIGRANT 

cigarette,  etc.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  head,, 
her  heart  beat  loudly,  she  breathed  quickly. 
Pere  Etienne  had  been  right  in  suspecting 
that  an  ardent  temperament  lay  concealed 
under  her  cold  exterior.  It  is  probable,  in- 
deed, that  Irene  was  one  of  the  many  "  chaste 
sensualists "  who  abound  in  society.  It  is 
strange  that  these  unconsciously  voluptuous 
natures,  suffering  as  they  do  very  extremely 
through  the  virtuous  life  imposed  on  them 
by  circumstances,  always  attribute  their  suffer- 
ings to  some  lofty  ethical  reason,  such  as. 
loss  of  faith  in  God,  disappointment  in 
their  friends,  misunderstood  ideals,  etc.,  and 
would  in  every  case  be  deeply  offended  should 
anyone  dare  to  suggest  to  them  a  very  simple 
and  prosaic  cure  for  their  "noble  sorrow." 
They  usually  guard  their  virtue  very  jealously,, 
vaguely  feeling  that  if  once  passion  gains  the 
upper  hand  over  them,  they  will  be  her  slaves. 
for  life. 


XX 

IT  was  a  close,  misty  day.  The  hills  and 
the  sea  were  shrouded  in  a  silvery  veil,  the 
air  was  sultry,  not  a  leaf  stirred  in  the 
trees. 

Directly  after  lunch  Gzhatski  had  accom- 
panied Irene  to  Nice,  where  she  was  to  try 
on  her  "forty-third  dress,  and  her  seventy- 
fourth  hat,"  as  he  gaily  remarked.  At  five 
o'clock,  tired  after  a  busy  afternoon's  shop- 
ping, they  went  to  the  J  etc"  e- Promenade,  for 
tea. 

The  season  being  at  its  very  last  ebb,  the 
orchestra  was  playing  in  the  large  hall  for 
the  sole  benefit  of  two  old  women,  who  slept 
peacefully  in  the  stalls,  and  the  luxurious 
empty  rooms  reminded  one  of  the  Sahara 
Desert  on  a  sultry  summer  day.  The  soli- 
tary waiter,  overjoyed  to  see  two  visitors, 

291 


292  THE  EMIGRANT 

hastened  to  offer  them  the  best  table  beside 
the  window,  where  they  could  enjoy  an  unin- 
terrupted view  over  the  magnificent  Quai  des 
Anglais,  with  its  gorgeous  hotels,  its  palm- 
trees,  and   its  gay  public  that  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  dropped  from  the  clouds.    The 
waves  were  splashing   lazily  on   the  shore, 
numerous  half-nude  children  were  paddling 
in  the  clear  blue  water,  and   a  faint,  fresh 
sea-breeze  came  in  at  the  open  window,  sur- 
rounding Gzhatski  and  Irene  with  its  caresses. 
The  sudden  sound  of  noisy  footsteps  rever- 
berating  through  the   empty  rooms  caused 
them  both  to  turn  round.     The  intruder  was 
a  tall,  handsome  "  brunette,"  in  a  white  cos- 
tume and  an  enormous  hat,  elegantly  poised 
on  a  luxurious  mass  of  hair.     A    Southern 
beauty,  this,  in  the  full  bloom  of  her  charms, 
the  paint  on  her  face  serving  more  as  a  sign- 
post than  an  ornament,  for  she  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  more  attractive  without 
it.     Carrying  herself  with  the  imperious  ease 
of  a  woman  accustomed  to  attract  universal  at- 
tention, she  sank  carelessly  into  a  wicker  arm- 
chair, crossed  her  legs,  and  without  so  much  as 


THE  EMIGRANT  293 

glancing  at  the  waiter,  ordered  a  whisky  and 
soda. 

"  So  that  is  the  kind  of  divinity  that  grows 
on  the  trees  here,"  said  Gzhatski,  scrutinizing 
the  newcomer  attentively.  "  And  I  had 
already  decided  that  Nice  was  as  empty  as 
an  Arabian  desert." 

"  She  does  not  live  in  Nice,"  answered 
Irene.  "  She  is  staying  at  our  hotel  in  Monte 
Carlo." 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  said  Gzhatski  in 
surprise. 

"  I  happened  to  be  on  the  balcony  last 
night  when  the  hotel  omnibus  brought  her 
from  the  station.  I  remember  noticing  the 
size  of  her  hat-box — now  it  does  not  surprise 
me  any  more !" 

Gzhatski  frowned.  "  I  should  never  have 
thought  a  respectable  hotel  like  ours  would 
admit  such  '  ladies,' "  he  muttered  crossly. 

"Well,  well — it  does  not  concern  us,"  said 
Irene,  amused  at  his  annoyance. 

"  Indeed  it  does,"  exclaimed  Gzhatski. "  No- 
body could  like  the  idea  of  such  a  creature  as 
that  living  under  the  same  roof  and  coming 


294  THE  EMIGRANT 

constantly  under  the  eyes  of  his  bride — of  the 
woman  who  is  dearer  to  him  and  whom  he 
places  higher  than  all  else  on  earth." 

"  Dear,  dear !  What  old-fashioned  pre- 
judices !"  smiled  Irene.  "  I  assure  you  the  lady 
will  not  demoralize  me.  On  the  contrary,  I 
pity  her  profoundly  for  having  to  lead  such  a 
frightful  life.  How  do  I  know  ?  Perhaps  if 
my  parents  had  not  left  me  a  fortune  I  might 
have  been  reduced  to  adopting  the  same 
profession !" 

"Irene!"  cried  Gzhatski  excitedly,  "never 
dare  to  say  such  a  thing  again !  The  insult 
of  the  suggestion  is  insufferable.  You  would 
have  starved  rather  than  lead  a  life  of  shame. 
As  if  I  did  not  know  you !  All  the  pity  that 
is  wasted  on  fallen  women  is  a  foolish  and 
unjustifiable  pity.  There  is  so  much  work  to 
be  done  in  the  world  that  everyone  who 
really  tries  can  earn  an  honest  living.  These 
worthless  creatures  never  want  to  work  at 
all — they  care  for  nothing  but  a  lazy,  com 
fortable,  luxurious  life." 

Gzhatski  had  become  flushed  and  excited. 
The    unknown    beauty   turned    round    and 


THE  EMIGRANT  295 

listened  with  interest  to  this  "  quarrel "  in  a 
strange  language.  The  waiter  put  before 
her  a  bottle  of  soda-water  and  a  small  glass 
of  whisky,  and  went  away.  She  swallowed 
the  whisky  in  one  draught,  and  took  out  an 
•elegant  gold  cigarette  case.  Holding  a 
•cigarette  between  her  teeth  she  scanned  the 
table  for  matches.  Finding  none,  she  rose, 
and,  as  calmly  as  if  approaching  an  acquain- 
tance, crossed  over  to  Gzhatski  and  asked 
him  for  a  light. 

Gzhatski  looked  as  black  as  thunder. 

Most  ungraciously,  he  handed  the  matches 
to  the  unknown  one,  and  paying  no  attention 
whatever  to  her  "  merci  monsieur  " — pro- 
nounced with  the  sweetest  of  smiles — he 
hastened  to  take  Irene  away  from  the  Casino. 

"  The  devil !"  ejaculated  Gzhatski  furiously, 
as  they  emerged  on  to  the  promenade.  "  It 
is  positively  incredible,  what  they  have  been 
allowed  to  come  to,  here  on  the  Riviera. 
The  impudence  of  the  hussy !  The  shame- 
lessness !  She  sees  that  I  am  with  a  respect- 
able lady,  and  she  dares  !"  His  indignation 
almost  suffocated  him. 


296  THE  EMIGRANT 

"Well,  well!"  said  Irene  quietly,  "why 
should  you  expect  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  its  ways  from  these  unfortunates  ?  Per- 
haps only  yesterday  she  was  washing  linen 
in  a  laundry  ;  where  should  she  have  learnt 
manners  ?" 

"  She  should  know  her  place,  and  not  for- 
get herself,"  growled  Gzhatski.  "  But  don't 
let  us  speak  of  it  any  more.  To-morrow 
morning  I  shall  complain  to  the  manager  of 
the  hotel,  and  if  he  really  insists  on  turning 
his  place  into  a  bad  house  we  shall  have  to 
find  rooms  elsewhere." 

In  the  evening  they  went,  as  usual,  to 
the  gambling-rooms.  There  were  very  few 
people,  and  it  was  easy  to  get  seats  at  the 
tables.  Irene  sat  down  beside  the  croupier, 
who  smiled  amiably  as  to  a  familiar,  frequent 
visitor.  She  began  to  play  eagerly,  but  luck 
did  not  come  her  way  that  evening,  and  she 
soon  lost  all  she  had  with  her.  Raising  her 
eyes  to  Gzhatski,  who  always  made  a  point 
on  these  occasions  of  standing  opposite  her 
and  looking  at  her  reproachfully  and  disap- 
provingly, she  saw,  standing  next  to  him,  the 


THE  EMIGRANT  297 

daring  lady  of  the  recent  incident  in  Nice. 
She  had  changed  her  attire,  and  wore  a  mag- 
nificent black  evening  dress,  a  mauve  cloak, 
and  an  enormous  hat  with  feathers.  Diamonds 
trembled  in  her  ears,  and  a  row  of  priceless 
pearls  encircled  her  neck.  In  the  evening 
the  paint  on  her  face  was  less  noticeable,  and 
she  was  really  so  handsome  that  Irene  gazed 
at  her  in  undisguised  admiration. 

Gzhatski,  though  he  was  standing  next  to 
the  woman  who  had  so  recently  infuriated 
him,  did  not  see  her,  his  attention  being 
riveted  on  a  very  original  gambler,  who  was 
sitting  at  the  end  of  the  table.  This  was 
a  wrinkled  little  old  man,  with  a  face  as 
yellow  as  parchment.  Before  him,  on  the 
table,  lay  a  pile  of  gold,  which  he  was  staking 
to  right  and  to  left,  without  any  sort  of 
system,  apparently  simply  putting  the  coins 
in  the  spaces  most  easily  accessible  to  his 
rheumatic  hands.  Strangely  enough  he  nearly 
always  won,  and  other  players  began  to  put 
their  stakes  on  his  numbers. 

Feeling  Irene's  glance  upon  him,  Gzhatski 
smiled  at  her  tenderly  ;  but  noticing  that  she 


THE  EMIGRANT 

was  actually  looking  not  at  him,  but  at  some- 
one beside  him,  he  turned  his  head,  and 
his  eyes  met  those  of  the  unknown  beauty. 
Gzhatski  flushed,  frowned,  and  turned  away 
from  the  table.  Irene  rose,  and  they  both 
left  the  gaming-room,  and  descended  into 
the  gardens.  •  Having  taken  a  few  steps 
towards  the  hotel,  Gzhatski  suddenly  stopped 
short  and  exclaimed : 

"  What  a  pity  to  go  and  shut  ourselves  up 
in  that  horrid  hotel.  It  is  only  eleven  o'clock. 
Let  us  go  and  have  supper  somewhere." 

Irene  looked  at  Gzhatski  in  astonishment. 
Only  the  previous  day  he  had  been  loud  in 
his  praises  of  the  hotel,  of  its  comfort  and 
its  beautiful  views,  and  its  proximity  to  the 
park.  Why  did  he  suddenly  find  it  horrid  ? 
However,  having  accustomed  herself  never 
to  contradict  him,  Irene  made  no  objection, 
and  they  turned  to  the  Cafe  de  Paris. 

The  sound  of  fashionable  valses  and  familiar 
operatic  melodies  floated  across  the  still  air 
from  the  brilliantly  illuminated  covered  ter- 
race. Quite  a  number  of  people  sat  at  the 
little  round  tables,  the  usual  heterogeneous 


THE  EMIGRANT  299 

Monte  Carlo  crowd.  There  were  correct 
Englishmen  in  smoking-jackets ;  there  were 
Germans  who  had  missed  their  last  train 
back  to  Menton,  and  were  having  supper 
in  company  with  their  fat  wives,  the  latter 
dressed  in  hideous  canary-coloured  blouses, 
their  hats  all  askew.  There  were  also  pretty 
and  theatrically  "  done-up "  young  ladies  in 
full  evening  dress,  coming  in  with  an  air 
of  boredom,  throwing  off  their  wraps  with 
studied  negligence,  and  indifferently  perusing 
the  menu.  These  were  professional  gamblers, 
of  whom  the  French  say,  "qu'elles  ne  sont 
pas  fixees,"  and  their  young  faces  bore  the 
stamp  of  that  surfeit  of  luxury  and  laziness 
that  had  long  ago  robbed  their  lives  of  all 
interest  and  charm. 

In  the  middle  of  the  terrace  a  queer 
company  was  drawing  universal  attention  to 
itself.  The  men  had  dirty  hands  and  wore 
shabby  coats,  glaring  ties,  and  dusty  boots. 
The  women  were  red-haired,  vulgar,  and 
noisy.  Their  table  was  littered  with  the 
most  choice  and  expensive  dishes,  to  which 
they  helped  themselves  greedily  without 


300  THE  EMIGRANT 

order  or  system,  even  forbidding  the  waiters- 
to  change  their  plates.  The  other  visitors 
threw  them  astonished  glances,  the  waiters 
winked  knowingly  at  each  other,  and  the 
elegant  French  group  sitting  near  Irene 
simply  gasped  in  horrified  wonder. 

"Vous  verrez  qu'ils  se  moucheront  dans 
leur  serviette,  et  embrasseront  les  femmes 
au  dessert,"  said  a  middle-aged  Frenchman, 
scrutinizing  the  offenders  severely. 

"  Ma  foi,  j'ai  envie  de  telephoner  au  com- 
missaire  de  police,"  answered  another ;  "  they 
have  probably  murdered  and  robbed  some- 
body on  the  highway,  and  have  come  here 
to  enjoy  themselves  on  the  spoils !" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  sighed  a  third  enviously* 
"They  have  simply  had  luck  at  the  tables; 
it  is  always  that  kind  that  wins !" 

The  restaurant  in  the  meantime  was  be- 
coming very  crowded.  Two  badly  dressed,, 
middle  -  aged  Englishwomen,  with  flabby 
cheeks  and  triple  chins,  but  wearing  a  King's 
ransom  in  diamonds  and  furs,  were  looking 
round  for  a  table.  These  noble  ladies  had 
seen  and  experienced  so  much  in  their  lives 


THE  EMIGRANT  301 

that  they  were  no  longer  capable  of  taking 
an  interest  in  anything  except  two  enormous 
•dogs,  which,  in  spite  of  prohibitions,  they  had 
brought  with  them.  The  dogs  tore  at  their 
leashes,  wriggled  out  of  their  collars,  and 
poked  their  noses  into  people's  plates.  The 
visitors  protested,  but  in  vain.  All  the  waiters 
seemed  to  know  the  dogs,  petted  them,  and 
•called  them  by  their  names,  while  the  head- 
waiter  led  the  English  ladies  to  a  reserved 
table,  and,  bowing  obsequiously,  waited  for 
their  order.  The  musicians,  in  their  red  and 
gold  coats,  played  with  redoubled  gusto. 
Their  violins  sang  and  wept  and  danced. 
Some  of  the  public  applauded  ;  others  called 
up  one  or  another  of  the  players,  and  gave 
him  money.  Alas !  these  artists  who  could 
extract  such  sublime  tones  from  their  instru- 
ments were  only  too  glad  to  accept  even 
trifling  tips !  Close  to  Gzhatski  sat,  deep 
in  meditation,  with  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
a  handsome  young  German.  He  had  come 
very  early,  and  had  ordered  a  choice  supper 
for  two.  The  champagne  had  long  been 
standing  ready  on  ice ;  red  roses  were  scat- 


302  THE  EMIGRANT 

tered  over  the  snowy  tablecloth.  Time  passed, 
and  still  she  came  not !  The  poor  young 
German  was  excited,  jumped  up  every  minute 
and  looked  towards  the  door,  from  time  to- 
time  rushed  out  to  the  porch,  and  repeatedly 
questioned  the  long-suffering  head-waiter. 

"  Mais,  monsieur  le  Baron,  j'ai  d6ja  eu 
1'honneur  de  vous  dire,"  replied  the  latter 
wearily.  "  '  Viendrai  si  je  puis,'  tel  est  le 
message,  pris  au  telephone." 

Neighbouring  visitors  were  observing  the 
poor  young  man  with  some  amusement,  and 
the  waiters  were  smiling.  The  champagne  had 
been  twice  taken  away  and  brought  back 
again,  the  crowd  was  thinning,  the  musicians 
were  playing  their  final  number,  when  at  last 
a  cab  drove  up  to  the  door.  The  enamoured 
swain  rushed  forward  ecstatically,  to  meet  a 
a  fragile,  dainty,  blue-eyed  Gretchen,  who 
entered  shyly,  dressed  all  in  white,  and 
wreathed  in  blushes  and  smiles.  This  was 
not  the  German  but  the  French  type  of 
Gretchen,  a  type  that  rarely  goes  as  far  as  the 
complete  faux  pas,  but  delights  in  the  tempta- 
tions and  risks  of  love-making  and  philander- 


THE  EMIGRANT  30? 

ing.  Feeling  that  resistance  is  their  chief 
charm,  these  Dresden  china  temptresses 
never  hurry  to  surrender. 

"Is  that  all  he  was  waiting  for,  poor  boy  ?'* 
said  Gzhatski,  with  a  pitying  smile.  "  Hardly 
worth  while.  She  has  not  a  farthingsworth 
of  temperament." 

The  "  poor  boy,"  however,  was  in  the 
seventh  heaven.  He  filled  the  lady's  glass, 
helped  her  to  everything,  ate  nothing  him- 
self, gazed  at  his  Gretchen,  and  sighed  deeply. 
He  would  have  been  ridiculous  had  not  the 
divine  spark  of  sincere  passion  illumined  his 
innocent,  frank  young  face.  With  his  elbows 
on  the  table,  he  appeared  to  be  ardently  per- 
suading the  young  lady  of  something,  and 
suddenly,  in  a  low  voice,  began  to  recite. 

"He    is    not    a    German   for   nothing!" 
laughed  Gzhatski.     "  Let  us  escape  ;  or  else 
we   shall   have  to   listen   to   the    whole    of 
Goethe." 

But  Sergei  Grigorievitch  was  mistaken.. 
The  young  man  was  reciting,  in  excellent 
French,  the  famous  "  Declaration  "  of  Riche- 
pin : 


304  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  L'amour  que  je  sens,  1'amour  qui  me  cuit, 
Ce  n'est  pas  1'amour  chaste  et  platonique, 
Sorbet  a  la  neige,  avec  un  biscuit, 
C'est  1'amour  de  chair,  c'est  un  plat  tonique. 

"  C'est  1'amour  brulant  comme  me  feu  gregeois 
C'est  1'amour  feroce  et  1'amour  solide, 
Surtout  ce  n'est  pas  1'amour  des  bourgeois, 
Amour  de  bourgeois,  amour  d'invalide. 

"  Ce  n'est  pas  non  plus  1'amour  de  roman, 
Faux,  pretentieux  avec  une  glose 
De  si,  de  pourquoi,  de  mais,  de  comment, 
C'est  1'amour  tout  simple,  et  pas  autre  chose. 

"  C'est  1'amour  puissant,  c'est  1'amour  vermeil. 
Je  serai  le  flot,  tu  seras  la  dune, 
Tu  seras  la  terre,  et  moi  le  soleil, 
Et  cela  vaut  mieux  que  leur  clair  de  lune." 

Gretchen  pretended  to  be  frightened,  but 
Irene  glanced  mutely  at  Gzhatski,  and  they 
both  thought  "It  is  true !"  The  wine,  the 
supper,  the  music,  had  affected  them ;  they 
spoke  little,  looked  at  each  other  mysteriously, 
and,  all  unconsciously,  sighed  as  deeply  as  the 
young  German. 

They  left  the  restaurant,  overcome  with 
tenderness,  pressing  close  to  each  other,  and 
softly  humming  the  passionate,  recently-heard 


THE  EMIGRANT  305 

melodies  that  still  echoed  in  their  ears.  The 
night  was  dark  and  warm  and  sultry.  They 
had  not  far  to  go.  Their  hotel  gleamed 
white,  silent,  and  ghostly,  between  the  trees. 
The  door  leading  into  the  garden  was  ajar, 
and  a  streak  of  light  fell  across  the  path.  As 
they  approached  they  saw  that  not  everyone 
had  yet  retired  for  the  night.  The  dark 
beauty  of  the  afternoon's  incident  was  stand- 
ing motionless  on  the  veranda,  leaning  her 
elbow  on  the  balustrade,  as  though  waiting 
for  someone.  She  had  taken  off  her  enormous 
hat,  and  had  thrown  a  black  lace  shawl  over 
her  hair.  Between  her  teeth  she  held  a  red 
rose.  Gzhatski  passed  without  looking  at 
her,  and  her  glance  followed  him  with  a  sar- 
castic smile. 

"  She  looks  like  Carmen,"  said  Irene. 
*'  Carmen  in  the  first  act,  when  she  is  tempt- 
ing Don  Jose." 

Sergei  Grigorievitch  quite  unexpectedly 
flared  up.  "  Carmen  !"  he  exclaimed  in  a 
white  rage.  "  Carmen  !  Can  you  think  of 
any  more  poetical  comparisons  ?  She  is  not 

Carmen,  but  simply  a !" 

20 


306 


THE  EMIGRANT 


"  Sergei  Grigorievitch  !"  gasped  Irene. 
"  Well  ?    You  think  that  is  not  a  drawing- 
room  expression  ?   Very  well  —  I  take  it  back, 


I  beg  your  pardon  —  but  it  expresses  my 
idea  excellently.  However,  don't  let  us  con- 
tinue the  conversation  ;  it  is  time  to  go  to 
bed.  Here  we  are  at  your  door.  I  wish  you 
a  good  night  !" 


XXI 

GZHATSKI'S  good  wish,  however,  was  not  des- 
tined to  be  fulfilled.  Was  it  the  music  or  the 
black  coffee  that  was  to  blame  ?  It  is  difficult 
to  say.  But  however  it  may  be,  Irene  found 
it  impossible  to  go  to  sleep.  She  tried  drink- 
ing sugared  water,  applied  cold  compresses 
to  her  head,  turned  from  side  to  side,  got  up 
and  paced  the  room,  opened  the  window — 
all  in  vain,  for  sleep  obstinately  refused 
to  answer  her  call.  At  last,  towards  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  she  threw  on  her 
dressing-gown,  sat  down  on  the  sofa  with  a 
book,  and  hoped  to  fall  asleep  with  the  dawn, 
as  frequently  happened  to  her  after  a  wakeful 
night. 

Even  the  book,  however,  failed  to  interest 
her — her  excited  brain  refusing  to  follow  the 
tangled  thread  of  the  sugary  English  novel. 

307 


308  THE  EMIGRANT 

Leaving  the  heroine  to  drink  a  twentieth  cup 
of  tea  on  the  lawn  in  company  with  the  hero, 
who  had  just  won  a  set  of  tennis,  Irene  threw 
down  the  book  and  lost  herself  in  her  own 
thoughts.  Russia,  her  departure  from  Petro- 
grad,  her  first  impressions  of  Rome,  Pere 
Etienne,  her  meeting  with  Gzhatski — all  this 
and  many  other  confused  recollections  passed 
through  her  mind. 

"How  unexpectedly  everything  has  ar- 
ranged itself,"  she  thought,  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"How  foolish  we  all  are  when  we  make 
plans,  and  arrange  and  fuss  and  worry,  and 
seriously  imagine  we  can  direct  our  own 
destinies  !  God  does  everything  in  His  own 
way,  and  always  for  the  best,  since  our  needs 
and  our  characters  are  far  better  known  to 
Him  than  to  ourselves.  There  was  I,  for 
instance,  imagining  that  I  had  nothing  more 
to  live  for,  and,  suddenly,  God  sent  me  so 
incomparable  a  lover,  so  immense  a  happi- 
ness. In  my  fairest  dreams,  I  had  never  seen 
so  ideal  a  husband — so  handsome,  so  clever, 
so  good,  so  noble.  What  a  contrast,  indeed, 
between  him  and  the  worthless  Petrograd 


THE  EMIGRANT  309 

officials,  with  their  vulgar  ambitions,  their 
greed  for  money,  and  their  mean  and  petty 
spites  and  jealousies  !  My  noble  Sergei !  You 
are  like  the  sun,  in  comparison  to  those  worms  ! 
"  And  he  has  such  high  ideals  !"  continued 
Irene  dreamily  to  herself.  "How  severely 
he  judged  that  unhappy  woman  !  A  little 
too  severely  perhaps,  but  that  only  proves 
how  seriously  he  looks  upon  love.  Oh !  my 
dear  one,  my  dear  one  ! 

"  All  the  priests  were  wrong  when  they 
found  my  faith  pagan.  I  knew  I  was  right ! 
God  wanted  to  try  me  with  long  and  dark 
years  of  despair  and  suffering,  but  finding 
that  I  was  not  embittered,  and  that  I  had 
remained,  in  spite  of  everything,  honest  and 
good,  He  has  sent  me  this  wonderful  happi- 
ness as  a  reward.  My  faith  was  the  right 
one,  my  God  has  triumphed  !" 

Irene  rejoiced  and  exulted,  and  life  had 
never  seemed  so  glorious  to  her  before. 
Suddenly  she  felt  that  this  was  the  happiest 
moment  of  her  existence,  and  that  nothing 
still  happier  could  or  would  ever  be.  She 
rose,  opened  the  door  leading  to  the  balcony, 


310  THE  EMIGRANT 

and  stepped  out.  It  was  still  dark,  but  one 
could  already  distinguish  the  trees,  and  there 
were  grey  streaks  in  the  sky. 

"  Soon  the  sun  will  rise,"  thought  Irene. 
"How  lovely  the  view  must  be  from  the 
Casino  Terrace!" 

The  idea  of  seeing  the  sun  rise  attracted 
her.  "  I  have  lived  all  this  time,  and  have 
never  once  seen  it,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  How 
surprised  Sergei  will  be  when  I  tell  him  my 
impressions  1" 

Irene  dressed  hurriedly,  and,  having  thrown 
a  cloak  over  her  dress  and  a  scarf  over  her 
hair,  stepped  softly  out  into  the  corridor. 
All  was  quiet,  and  a  grey  streak  of  light  was 
filtering  through  the  glass  door  leading  into 
the  garden.  Like  a  ghost,  Irene  slipped 
along  the  passage,  when,  suddenly,  the  slight 
movement  of  a  door  on  the  right  attracted  her 
attention.  The  door  gradually  opened,  softly, 
slowly,  carefully.  Something  guilty  and  hor- 
rible seemed  suggested  by  this  carefulness. 
Irene  stopped  still  in  the  shadow  of  a  large 
cupboard,  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  moving  door. 

At  last  it  stood  half-way  open,  and  y ester- 


THE  EMIGRANT  311 

clay's  Carmen-like  beauty  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  She  wore  a  lace  dressing-gown,  and 
her  long,  wavy  hair  hung  in  heavy  coils  down 
her  back.  The  beauty  glanced  to  right  and 
to  left  along  the  passage,  then  turned  round 
with  a  whispered  word,  and  out  of  the  room 
Issued — Gzhatski !  He,  too,  whispered  some- 
thing, and  they  both  laughed  softly.  Stepping 
carefully  on  tip-toe  over  the  carpet,  Sergei 
Grigorievitch  stole  towards  the  staircase,  and 
disappeared  round  its  bend.  The  beauty 
closed  her  door.  .  .  . 

Poor  Irene's  knees  shook,  and  all  but  gave 
way  under  her.  Leaning  against  the  wall, 
with  hardly  strength  enough  to  drag  one  foot 
before  the  other,  she  staggered  back  to  her 
room,  and  fell,  almost  lifeless,  on  the  sofa. 

The  sun  had  long  since  risen  and  was 
forcing  its  way  in  through  the  shutters.  The 
birds  had  long  been  singing,  noise  and  move- 
ment were  in  the  air,  everywhere  people  were 
laughing  and  talking,  but  Irene  still  lay  prone 
and  motionless.  Thoughts  were  rushing 
wildly  through  her  head,  but  she  could  not 
disentangle  them.  Slowly,  gradually,  she 


3i2  THE  EMIGRANT 

began  to  realize  the  full  force  of  the  terrific 
blow  that  had  fallen  on  her. 

11  So  that  is  what  you  are  like,"  she  mur- 
mured childishly.  "  And  I  had  believed  in 
you  so  completely,  and  had  placed  you  so- 

high . . ." 

For  a  moment  the  voice  of  reason  tried 
to  pacify  her.  "  But  this  is  nothing  more 
than  a  man's  adventure,  a  prank,  a  caprice 
after  a  gay  supper,"  it  whispered  seriously. 
But  Irene  paid  no  attention.  "If  it  were 
only  the  supper,"  she  argued,  "why  did  not 
Sergei  come  to  her,  to  his  bride  ?  What 
cared  she  for  marriage  ceremonies  ?  Did  she 
not,  before  God,  belong  to  Gzhatski  soul  and 
body  ?  But  no,  he  had  not  come  to  her.  He 
considered  her  old  and  ugly  and  repulsive !" 

This  thought  filled  Irene  with  such  an 
agony  of  despair  that  she  slipped  from  the 
sofa  to  the  carpet,  rolled  about  and  knocked 
her  head  against  the  floor,  striving  by  this 
means  to  deaden  her  unbearable  pain.  "  You 
are  old,  you  are  ridiculous,  you  are  hideous, 
in  spite  of  your  fashionable  dresses !"  she 
exclaimed  wildly  to  herself,  and,  rising  from 
the  carpet,  she  tottered  towards  the  looking- 


THE  EMIGRANT  315. 

glass,  and  gazed  disgustedly  at  her  own  tear- 
stained,  tortured,  suddenly  aged  and  dis- 
figured reflection. 

"  So  this  is  the  part  that  has  been  allotted 
to  you  in  Sergei's  life!"  she  hissed.  "You 
are  the  ideal,  the  image  of  his  mother,  the 
statue  of  purity  that  stands  on  a  pedestat 
surrounded  by  respect  and  homage !  I  am 
sick  to  death  of  this  eternal  respect !  I  want 
love — one  month,  one  day,  one  hour  of  love  ! 
But  no — love  belongs  only  to  such  as  Car- 
men ;  never  will  it  fall  to  my  lot !  Oh !  if 
this  is  so,  if  this  is  so,  I  do  not  want  to  live !" 

A  bitter  resentment  against  God  took  pos- 
session of  Irene's  soul.  "  What  is  the  object 
of  this  mockery  ?"  she  groaned.  "  Thou 
knowest  that  if  I  had  entered  a  convent  I 
should  have  been  an  exemplary  nun.  Of  what 
use  was  it  to  distract  me  from  my  purpose, 
and  send  me  a  hope  of  happiness,  only  to 
shatter  it  cruelly  with  a  derisive  laugh  ?  As 
if  I  had  not  suffered  enough  without  this ! 
All  my  life  has  been  nothing  but  suffering, 
nothing  but  pain.  But  to  Thee,  this  seemed 
insufficient — there  was  still  this  last  refine- 
ment of  torture  to  apply  !  But  who  art  Thou- 


3 14  THE  EMIGRANT 

in  the  end,  thou  mighty  torturer  of  men's 
soul's  ?  Thou  art  no  God,  no  just  and 
generous  Being,  such  as  He  whom  my 
imagination  had  created.  No — Thou  art  a 
vampire,  sucking  the  blood  of  men's  hearts ! 
But  I  will  be  even  with  Thee  yet.  I  will 
prove  myself  the  stronger  of  the  two.  I  will 
kill  myself,  and  so  deprive  Thee  of  the  joy  of 
torturing  me." 

"  Pull  yourself  together,"  whispered  reason. 
"  Look  at  life  more  soberly.  Your  Sergei 
is  not  perhaps  as  depraved  as  it  would  seem. 
There  was  nothing  to  prevent  his  passing  all 
his  life  in  the  company  of  beautiful  Carmens, 
and  yet  you  know  how  he  has  been  struggling 
all  the  winter  to  win  you.  That  was  because 
he  felt  that  only  you  could  give  him  happi- 
ness. Cannot  you,  in  return,  struggle  a  little 
for  him  ?  Will  you  not  try  with  the  strength 
of  your  love  to  keep  alight  in  him  the  divine 
spark  that  burns  in  every  human  soul  ?  You 
are  pure  and  virtuous,  and  therefore  stronger 
than  all  the  Carmens  in  the  world.  Victory 
belongs  to  you,  and  not  to  them  !" 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  answered  Irene.  "  I 
cannot,  and  will  not — for  I  do  not  love 


THE  EMIGRANT  315 

him  any  more.  He  is  repulsive  to  me.  I 
loved  a  strong,  honest,  ideal  man.  What  do 
I  want  with  this  pitiful  wretch,  who  has  not 
enough  strength  of  mind  to  follow  the  dic- 
tates of  his  own  conscience  ?  Could  I  ever 
forget  the  look  of  that  contemptible,  cowardly 
figure,  stealing  guiltily  along  the  passage 
after  an  iniquitious  interview  with  his  loath- 
some associate  I  His  bright  image  in  my 
heart  is  shattered  for  ever,  never  again  can  I 
look  at  him  in  the  old  way." 

The  savage  beast  that  Gzhatski  had  once 
mentioned  to  Irene  had  awakened  in  her,  and 
growled  and  roared,  its  appetite  roused  and 
unsatisfied !  .  .  . 

"  I  will  drown  myself — throw  myself  from 
the  rocks  above  the  Monaco  gardens  !"  she 
thought.  But  the  idea  of  going  out  into  the 
sunshine  and  facing  the  triumphant  glory 
of  Southern  nature,  caused  her  to  frown  ner- 
vously. 

"  They  are  all  happy  out  there,"  she 
muttered  angrily.  "Very  well,  they  can  be 
as  happy  as  they  like.  It  is  all  the  same  to 
me.  I  must  do  away  with  myself  here,  in 
this  dark  room." 


3i6  THE  EMIGRANT 

Her  glance  swept  the  walls  in  search  of  a 
nail,  and  returned  to  the  table,  arrested  by  a 
glass  of  pinkish  water. 

On  arriving  at  Monte  Carlo  Irene  had 
developed,  on  account  of  the  strong  sea  air, 
a  slight  rash  on  her  face.  Having  just  at 
that  time  been  very  particular  about  her 
appearance,  she  had  applied  to  a  doctor,  who 
had  given  her  a  lotion  composed  of  a  solution 
of  sublimate,  with  the  warning  that  it  was  a 
strong  poison,  for  external  application  only. 
Irene  had  prepared  the  solution  each  evening, 
in  readiness  for  use  the  following  morning, 
and  a  glassful  of  it  was  now  standing  tempt- 
ingly on  her  table.  She  approached.  In  her 
imagination  she  saw  frightful  tortures  and 
frantic  pains. 

"Nonsense,  nonsense,"  she  whispered  to 
herself  encouragingly.  "  Are  you  such  a 
coward  ?  What  are  a  few  hours  of  physical 
pain  compared  to  the  unbearable  mental 
sufferings  which,  with  your  tiresome  good 
health,  might  last  another  forty  years  !  And 
however  cruel  your  sufferings  have  been  till 
now,  at  least  you  had  some  faith  in  God,  in 
His  miracles  and  His  power.  What  would 


THE  EMIGRANT  317 

life  be  like  now,  when  even  this  last  straw  of 
comfort  has  been  taken  from  you  ?" 

Irene  shuddered.  Struggling  with  the 
animal  instinct  of  "  Life  at  all  costs,"  she 
alternately  stretched  out  her  hand  towards 
the  glass,  and  withdrew  it  again.  Suddenly 
a  strange  thought  came  into  her  mind. 

"  Could  it  be  that  Nature,  foreseeing  the 
possibility  of  her  having  children  by  Gzhatski, 
and  finding  it  necessary  to  protect  these  future 
children  from  inheriting  her  moral  disease, 
from  suffering,  from  leading  useless,  miserable 
lives  and  spreading  darkness  and  despair 
along  their  path,  had  purposely  sent  her  out 
to  see  the  sun  rise  that  morning,  and  was  now 
hurrying  her  to  drink  the  glass  of  poison  ?" 

A  strong  feeling  of  resentment  accompanied 
this  thought. 

"But  why  such  tender  solicitude  for  these 
unborn  creatures?"  thought  the  unfortunate 
girl,  "  and  such  cold,  cruel  indifference  to 
me  and  my  sufferings  ?" 

And  she  felt  inclined  to  upset  the  glass, 
throw  away  the  tempting  poison,  and  live 
on,  just  to  spite  Nature.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 


3i 8  THE  EMIGRANT 

"  Irene  Pavlovna,  are  you  still  asleep  ?** 
Gzhatski's  gay  voice  resounded  in  the  passage. 
"  Do  get  up  and  come  out !  It  is  a  glorious 
morning,  just  like  the  one  Fett*  sings  about. 
Do  you  remember  ? 

'"I  have  brought  to  thee  a  greeting 
From  this  rosy  summer  morn ; 
Come  !  the  golden  hours  are  fleeting.  .  .  .'" 

The  blood  rushed  to  Irene's  head. 

"He  is  gay  and  happy!"  she  thought, 
"In  whose  arms  has  he  gleaned  this  joy  ?" 

And  such  an  insufferable  sense  of  insult 
and  of  irony  conveyed  itself  to  her  mind 
through  Gzhatski's  light-hearted  greeting, 
that  with  a  sudden  impulse  she  seized  the 
glass  and  swallowed  the  poison  in  one  draught. 

The  door  opened,  and  Gzhatski  entered. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  quite  ready  !"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Why  didn't  you  answer  ?  There  I  stood, 
like  a  Spanish  hidalgo,  declaiming  at  your 
door !  What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  do  you 
look  so  tragic  ?" 

Irene  looked  at  him  in  silence,  and  crossed 
her  arms  on  her  chest. 

*  A  famous  Russian  poet. 


THE  EMIGRANT  319 

"  I  saw  you  come  out  from  that  room  at 
dawn,"  she  said,  in  a  low  whisper  and  with 
trembling  lips. 

"  You  saw  ?  .  .  ."  And  Gzhatski  blushed 
deeply.  "Well,  then.  Of  course  you  now 
think  I  am  a  scoundrel.  I  am  not  going  to 
try  and  justify  myself.  I  ask  you  only  one 
thing — do  not,  for  Heaven's  sake,  lower 
yourself  in  my  eyes  by  being  jealous  of  that 
disgusting  creature.  If  only  you  could  under- 
stand what  an  abyss  separates  you  from  her ! 
To  me  she  is  not  a  woman.  She  is — a  glass 
of  whisky  that  I  must  drink  sometimes,  a 
cigarette  that  one  has  the  need  of  smoking 
at  certain  moments.  .  .  .  Forgive  me — I 
have  no  right  to  tell  you  these  things.  But 
it  is  incredible  that  you  girls  can  pass  through 
life  without  understanding  them.  What  am 
I  to  say,  how  am  I  to  prove  to  you  that  that 
miserable  worm  simply  does  not  exist  for 
me  ?  If  it  can  please  you,  let  us  go  imme- 
diately to  the  North  Cape  or  to  Central 
Africa.  She  will  not  follow  us  there !  What 
is  the  matter  ?  Oh  !  what  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?" 

Irene  had  fallen  to  the  ground  with  a  cry, 
and  was  writhing  on  the  carpet.  Gzhatski 


320  THE  EMIGRANT 

fell  on  his  knees  beside  her  and  caught  her 
up  in  his  arms. 

"  Irene !  Irene !  My  darling !  My  dearest 
one  !  Tell  me.  What  is  it  ?  Don't  frighten 
me  so!" 

"  I  am  lost !"  whispered  Irene  in  terror, 
clinging  spasmodically  to  Gzhatski,  and  only 
just  then  realizing  to  the  full  what  she  had 
done  to  herself.  "  I  am  dying ;  I  have 
poisoned  myself  with  sublimate !" 

"  Poisoned  yourself !  How?  Purposely? 
Because  of  that  accursed  Frenchwoman  ?" 

"  Yes  !"  whispered  Irene  shamefacedly. 

Gzhatski  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  in 
horror. 

"  Oh !  madness  !  madness  !"  he  cried  help- 
lessly. 

Then,  regaining  his  presence  of  mind,  he 
tore  himself  from  her  embrace,  and  rushed 
to  the  door. 

"  A  doctor!  A  doctor!"  His  voice  rang 
wildly  through  the  corridor. 

"  Too  late — too  late !"  muttered  Irene. 
And  the  agony  set  in. 

BILLING  AND   SONS,   LTD.,    FRINTERS,    GUILDFORD,   ENGLAND 


DATE  DUE 


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